


Starbucks

by caffeineivore



Series: Starbucks [1]
Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bromance, Coffeeshop AU, F/M, Female Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, Male-Female Friendship, Multi, Slice of Life, interconnected vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-07-29 11:52:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 46,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16263650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeineivore/pseuds/caffeineivore
Summary: The Starbucks on the university campus is a crowded hub of activity and is open 24 hours, and fall semester just began. A series of interconnected stories and interactions set at Starbucks: Love Actually meets Senshi/Shitennou meets college-town cafe AU. The season's inaugural pumpkin spice latte has nothing on the heart-pounding sweetness of first love.





	1. The Month Of September

September 3rd, 3PM

The apartment building is typical for a college town, picturesque enough on the outside with its ivy-cloaked brick, with a strictly monitored parking lot and a set of somewhat rusty bike racks by the main entrance. The elevator is ancient and crowded with the surge of students on move-in day, so those who aren’t lugging furniture and the like opt instead for the stairs.

Melia Kinley is one of those taking the stairs, coming home from a shift at the Starbucks walking-distance from the building still wearing her green apron. Her new roommate is due to arrive that day-- in an hour or so, actually, and though Annette Martin certainly seemed nice enough on the phone calls and emails, it’d be nice to give the girl a tour and probably a helping hand. 

She’s just gotten to her door when she sees what looks to be a perambulating pile of textbooks staggering down the hall, crowned by neat blue-black hair. A girl, several inches shorter than her own statuesque 5’10, and from the looks of it, maybe no more than a-buck-twenty, soaking wet. “Need help?” Melia calls out, already striding back down the hall. She grabs the top two books off the pile-- Gray’s Anatomy and The Merck Manual, then grins at the sight of a somewhat familiar face-- seen only on a recently-friended Facebook page. “Oh, hey. You’re Annette. I’m Melia, but you can call me Lia. Most everyone does. You’re a bit early.”

“I usually am, sorry,” Annette’s voice is slightly breathy with exertion, but pleasant and well-modulated, not likely given in to squeals and giggles. “The elevator was full, you see. I figured I’d bring my books and littler things up first, then deal with the bigger items later, after most of the other people were done.”

“Lugging heavy books up three flights of stairs, though?”

“Well, it’s not swimming, but it’s not a bad workout, all in all.” Annette waits for Melia to unlock the apartment, then sets the books down on a counter with a diffident smile. “I could pretend that I’m doing all this to build up the upper body and not because I felt bad trying to squeeze into an elevator full of people, some of whom have large suitcases and pieces of furniture. I didn’t want to impose.”

Melia gets the immediate impression that ‘I didn’t want to impose’ is a statement that the soft-spoken Annette Martin uses often, and takes stock of her new roommate. Sensible shoes and dark-wash jeans. A seriously pretty face all cobalt-blue eyes and enviably porcelain skin. The facebook page had said medical school, but Annette looked almost young enough to pass for a teenager. She grins. 

“I’m sure you won’t. Let’s go get the rest of your stuff, and then… coffee?”

**

September 4th, 5am

It’s the third day of PSL season and, to Melia, the place already smells like a Thanksgiving kitchen. It’s not super busy at this hour on this day, but then again, most of the students are enjoying one last day of freedom before classes truly begin for the fall semester. The blonde ensconced in the corner gives her a cheery wave as she walks in, and she waves back before clocking in for her shift.

“I waited for you to get here before ordering, because you make them the best, but don’t tell Jordan I said that because he’d probably be totally butthurt,” Maralynn Avery glides up to the counter on completely impractical gold strappy heels and reaches over it to give Melia a hug replete with tinkling gold jewelry and a whiff of honeysuckle perfume. Melia returns the hug, then steps back with a chuckle. 

“Orrrr… you could have, y’know, done the practical thing and gone to bed? It’s the ass-crack of dawn and you don’t have any classes, so why are you up?”

“A party, sort of a welcome-back-to-school thing,” Maralynn tells her as Melia rings up a Venti pumpkin spice latte, extra whip, extra caramel drizzle. “There were a few new girls from my old sorority going. I wanted to make sure they got home safe, you know, and then one thing led to another, and before I knew it it was about time for you to start work, and hey, I figured I deserved a PSL for helping Cyndi Sherman puke up four strawberry daiquiris, then get her back to her dorm in one piece. Her hangover’s gonna suck today, but there’s not too much I can do about that. I did leave her a bacon, peanut butter and banana sandwich in the fridge, though, so that should help.”

“That sounds disgusting.” Melia makes the drink, then scribbles Maralynn’s name on it with a sharpie. 

“But it works. Elvis did it, so you know it’s legit.”

Before Melia can respond to that, the door opens, and Maralynn sidles off away from the counter as a man walks in, looking absolutely nothing like a college student, wearing stone-gray workout clothes that somehow gave him the dignity of a three-piece suit-- undoubtedly also present, in an expensive-looking garment bag slung over one arm. He also sported a black leather briefcase and a precise haircut and a rather forbidding expression. 

“What can I get for you?” Melia, customer service smile in place, steps up to the counter. 

“Tall Americano with three shots. Black.”

“Coming right up, sir. Name for the order?”

“Cameron. Excuse me.” He steps over to where Maralynn is still loitering by the counter and picks up two napkins.

“No problem, sunshine,” Maralynn chirps. “And good morning to you as well. Come here often?”

The man, Cameron, seems to have the typical laconic and generally irritable demeanour of someone up at the ass-crack of dawn before his first cup of coffee, and simply shakes his head no. Unfortunately for him, harder nuts have been known to crack under Maralynn’s persistent brand of pestering. 

“You should get a pumpkin spice latte. Lia makes the best, ever. I know there’s like a Starbucks everywhere, but there’s no one like her. I mean, if I’m going to shell out close to $10 on coffee, I’m going to go all out.”

“I take my coffee black.” Cameron doesn’t exactly make eye contact; his piercing gray eyes seem to land on a spot over Maralynn’s shoulder. “It’s not good to take in a ton of sugar and crap before working out.”

“This is NOT crap!” Maralynn gasps in mock-outrage, waving her cup and taking a deliberate sip which leaves a smudge of pink lipstick on its lid. The man ignores her, leaning in slightly to take his completed drink from Melia’s hands, then drops a crisp five-dollar bill in the tip jar before leaving out the door without a backward glance. 

“Ugh. What a jerk. Why are the good-looking ones always so jerky?” Maralynn pouts and wanders back to where Melia is wiping off a bit of milk from the counter. “Do you know who that is? I don’t know who that is, and I know almost everyone.”

“No idea. Definitely not a student, though. I haven’t seen him come through before. Good tipper, though, so I hope he comes through more often.”

“And he smelled nice. Why do the good-looking jerky ones have to smell nice?”

“I didn’t notice, and I wouldn’t know,” Melia says with a straight face. “I’m going to assume it’s because they need some good qualities to offset any possible jerky-ness. But honestly, Maralynn, you know damn well that people are crabby before their first coffee of the day, so I don’t know why you were talking to him to begin with.”

“Hey, it’s a new school year. New fall, new friends, you know? I could always use new friends.”

“Yeah, okay. If your social life were any busier, people would have to take a number and get in line like it’s the DMV or the butcher counter at the grocery store on Memorial Day weekend.”

“Whatever.” At that moment, a few more customers strolled in, and Maralynn snags her cup off the counter and walks towards the door. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Have a good day!”

“Yeah, you too. Stay out of trouble.”

“No promises!”

**

September 6th, 3pm

The piano’s a rickety, chipped old Kohler and Campbell with yellowed keys like crooked, snaggle teeth, but the Rachmaninoff Concerto pouring out of the ancient instrument is played with all the bravura of a hotshot concert pianist in a fancy orchestra hall. It’s utterly out of place here, in this darkened, deserted bar, but the pianist doesn’t seem to even register his surroundings as his long, slim fingers fly over the keys with the frenetic pace of a dervish in full whirl. 

It’s an exceptionally difficult piece, and Shane Greenberg’s face is flushed with the exertion when, finally, he finishes. The high cheekbones are rosy and there’s a faint line of sweat sliding down the back of his neck as he flexes undoubtedly sore fingers, but his sharp green eyes meet the bar manager’s gaze almost defiantly. “Well?”

“That’s quite… something, all right. You’re very good, that’s for sure.”

“I would hope so, considering that one of my majors is music,” Shane says dryly, then seems to remember the place and occasion. “I mean, thanks.”

“Do you know any popular music? Piano Man by Billy Joel, or maybe Don’t Stop Believin’ by Journey? Some Elvis, some Beatles, maybe some Coldplay or Adele for the younger crowd? That’s the type of stuff our customers here enjoy.”

Shane bites down a sneer and stares down at his fingers. “I can do that if I must.” 

“All right.” The bar manager gives him a jovial smile and a pat on the shoulder. “We’ll give you a chance. The hours are kind of late, obviously, but the tips are good, and you could do a lot worse than here. Our customers are a bit more chill than the trendy dance club type. And considering Noel’s the one who got you in, I’m sure he’ll keep the riff-raff from bugging you too much. Rules are very basic: show up on time for your scheduled shifts, be nice to the customers and play what they want, and no drinking, drugs or fighting while on the clock. You put your stuff in one of the lockers in the break room and get a share of the bar tips as well as the music tips at the end of every shift. You get one fifteen minute break per four hours and half-off your food and drinks. Any questions, ask Noel, or Drew, who is my lead bartender. Now, let’s see your ID and social security card so we can finish your paperwork.”

Twenty minutes later finds him walking back out of the bar, a bit bemused but a bit proud all the same. Shane, a scholarship kid on his fifth and final year of undergrad, has never needed to work before. A double major in mathematics and music performance in piano, too, does not particularly lead to very lucrative career paths. But maybe, just maybe, this gig at the piano bar would lead him somewhere. And besides, no scholarship in the world would cover food and electronics and fun. 

There’s a Starbucks next door to the piano bar-- just the type of mass-manufactured corporate entity that he avoids entering, on principle. But as luck or fate would have it, the door opens outward just as he walks past it, and a slight, slim figure collides with him. Shane has the breath knocked out of him via a heavy textbook and hears a quiet yelp, gets a vague whiff of iced white tea and lemon and a flash of clean, pale blue linen. He stoops instinctively to pick up the girl’s dropped books and papers, which are now scattered across the sidewalk, and looks up into an incredible face, pink-cheeked from embarrassment, long-lashed blue eyes meeting his gaze with more than a little consternation.

“I’m sorry,” both of them say at the same exact time, and she wrings her hands instead of giggling in the way of typical girls. There’s a splash of spilled tea on his shirt, and he hopes to hell, as he silently hands her her books, that she doesn’t notice how his nails are bitten to the quick. He stammers something incomprehensible about buying her another iced tea just as she stammers something equally incomprehensible about dry-cleaning his shirt, and then, as though by mutual agreement, both duck their heads and separate. Shane gives her room to pass, and she nods a quick thanks and bolts on neat black ballet flats. He means to go, he truly does… to get back to the house and tell Noel that he’d gotten the job, maybe to play the entire Suite Bergamasque by Debussy to unwind, but he can’t resist glancing back, watching the mystery girl dashing off in the direction of the campus apartments and dorms. 

The spilled Starbucks cup on the sidewalk by his shoes still has its iconic green straw in it and a few cubes of ice. He picks it up in a bit of a daze, then glances at it before he throws it in the trash. 

On the side, written in a masculine scrawl, is the name “Annette”. 

**

September 7th, 8pm

It’s a Friday night and most of the customers are quietly plugging away, on headphones and books and laptops. Starbucks, frenetic during the morning and the early afternoon rushes, is fairly chill now, which suits Jordan Lee just fine as he wipes down the espresso machine. He quietly slides a refill (grande iced white tea with lemonade, extra ice) on the table next to Annette Martin’s books, and smiles at her quiet thanks. His coworker’s new roommate is already becoming a bit of a regular, and considering the soft-spoken good manners and generally tidy habits, he’s glad. 

A mobile order comes through, and he ducks behind the counter to make it. He’s putting the to-go lid on the matcha latte just as the door opens and in walks a dark-haired goddess in a cardinal-red Carmen Sandiego trench coat. The name on the mobile order is for Rebecca, and Jordan guesses that this must be her. She looks like a Rebecca, he reflects, with a wry smile. One who never went by “Becky” a day in her natural life.

“Grande matcha latte, easy on the milk, yeah?”

“I guess,” Rebecca’s voice is regal, the type which would command respect even if she never raised it. “Though, you know it’s not really matcha.”

“Well,” Jordan shrugs one shoulder and grins, “Probably not. Though I can’t say I’m too familiar with real matcha personally.”

“Well, it isn’t,” Rebecca raises her chin, and Jordan realizes that her eyes aren’t blue, like he’d originally thought, but a rather fabulous heather-violet, fringed with thick black lashes. They give him a once-over, lingering on the tattoos rippling up and down both his arms. “My maternal grandfather was Japanese.” He senses the unspoken ‘and I miss him’, though she doesn’t say it.

“I’m sure you would know better than me,” Jordan says evenly, watching as she takes a tiny sip of the latte. “Well, shoddy faux matcha aside, does it pass muster?”

“It’s okay. A bit too sugary, but I’m sure that can’t be helped, considering.”

“Yes, damn that shoddy faux matcha,” Jordan grins again. She’s a bit on the finicky side, but he’s certainly dealt with worse. “Tell you what. I’ll just make you a plain green tea.” He’s doing so even as he’s talking, and then hands her the cup. At her surprised and slightly affronted expression, he smiles. “On the house.”

“Oh. Hmm, well, thank you.” She should look awkward, holding a cup in each hand, but she somehow pulls it off. Jordan thinks she’s likely the type who’d be able to pull off dignified in a paint ball fight, and for just a split second, he absolutely cannot resist. 

“Not a problem. Have a good weekend, Becky. Come back and see me.”

She doesn’t respond or look back, though he sees her shoulders stiffen beneath the well-tailored trench coat as she continues walking out. Jordan chuckles, meets Annette’s fascinated and slightly reproachful eyes across the room, and shrugs before going back to work.

A moment later, Rebecca’s tip comes through on the app. It’s a shockingly generous one. 

**

September 11th, 4am

Melia makes her way to the Starbucks by the glow of the streetlights, carrying a covered cake tray, and just as she’s about to partake in a few intermediate-level juggling acts to pull the door open while holding that and her oversized purse, someone pushes it open from inside, and she smiles up into a familiar face.

“Noel. Hi.”

“Good morning, Melia.” Unlike the rest of her friends, Noel never calls her Lia, but she doesn’t mind when his smokey-scotch voice caresses the syllables of her name so beautifully. “I figured you’d be showing up around now.”

“You figured right. Were you just leaving?” Noel worked at the piano bar next door as a bouncer, and in the week or so since the term had begun, came through fairly regularly at the start of her shift and the end of his. 

“No, I just saw you at the door, figured you had your hands full. What’s that you got there?” Long, tanned fingers gesture the cake tray.

“Oh, just what’s left of a birthday cake I made. It was my roommate’s birthday yesterday, you see. It’s an apple upside-down cake, since, fall.”

“Sounds delicious. That’s very nice of you to make her a cake.”

By now, Melia’s behind the counter and clocked in. She slices a piece of the cake for Noel, and sets it on a napkin. “Well, you can have this today instead of your usual cheese pastry. On the house.”

Noel smiles, and eats cake while she makes him his usual cold brew. He may have the wide shoulders and burly arms of a bouncer, but Melia suspects that there’s something else lurking behind that easy smile, those thoughtful brown eyes. Certainly, he’s far better-looking than the usual gargoyle-ish hulk planted in front of most places. Maybe one of these days, they’d exchange more than just a few polite words, but then again, she was not the type to pester her customers. Particularly ones who likely had to deal with raucous drunks all night. 

“That is the best freaking thing I have ever tasted.” His words break through her errant thoughts, and she looks up, startled. 

“Oh! Well, thanks. It’s a new recipe.”

“I’m surprised there’s any left, considering,” Noel tells her. “I mean it. I---”

The arrival of another familiar customer causes him to trail off, mid-sentence. Melia hears jingling jewelry and sees a sheaf of golden hair and immediately begins the preparations for a pumpkin spice latte.

“Oh, hi again! I’m pretty sure I just saw you at the door of Coda! I’m Maralynn-- pronounced Mah-rah Lynn, not Marilyn!”

“I remember you. Noel. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You guys have a new pianist, huh? He seems a bit antisocial, if you don’t mind me saying. But great musician! Way better than the one who was there last term. Let me go get my order.”

“I don’t mind,” Noel chuckles and watches as the blonde hugs Melia effusively across the counter and attacks her newly-made drink with the enthusiasm of a five-year-old sampling the goods at a candy store. Melia cuts her a slice of the cake as well, and really, he should get going. It’s a Tuesday morning and certainly Melia would be far too busy shortly to deal with someone standing awkwardly in her cafe not-flirting over a coffee and a delicious slice of cake. “I’ll see you around, Melia. Nice to meet you, Maralynn.”

Both girls wave, and Maralynn barely waits for the door to shut behind Noel’s back before draping herself halfway across the counter with an impudent smirk. “Girl, you have been holding out! He’s cute!” 

Melia scoffs, but her cheeks are faintly pink behind a few wispy curls that have escaped from her customary ponytail. She can all but hear the italics in Maralynn’s voice. “I don’t know him well. He’s only just started coming here, I think. I know he works next door, though.”

“Whatever!! He was totally checking out your boobs, which, to be fair, are objectively fabulous even when covered with a bright green apron. You should write your number on his cup the next time, see what happens!”

“Right, because that’s super professional,” Melia shakes her head and laughs. “I’m sure he’s just being nice.”

“Or you could bring more of your delicious homemade goodies! Who the hell cares if Starbucks goes bankrupt, not that they ever would? Win a man’s heart through his stomach! That’s a cliche for a reason, right?”

Before Melia can reply, the swinging door alerts her to the arrival of yet another customer, and it’s only her raised eyebrows which cause Maralynn to glance over her shoulder. Immediately, the blonde straightens, and bestows a beaming smile upon the newcomer.

“Good morning, sunshine! Fancy meeting you here, again. Now I know you come here often with the rest of us basic bitches, but don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

Cameron of the triple-shot Americano and steel-grey eyes ignores Maralynn’s barb and steps to the counter, placing his order with the same brevity as the last time. Melia notices, however, that he does give Maralynn a very brief, very discreet once-over, taking in the goldenrod-coloured high-low dress and the red ribbon in her hair. Whether he approves or not is harder to determine, though. The man’s picture was probably listed under the dictionary definition of “poker face”. “I’m sure we don’t have any mutual friends for you to tell, Miss…”

“Maralynn Avery. And you’re Cammy! I remember you from last time! Did you change your mind about delicious nutritious pumpkin spice lattes?” 

Melia reflects that most mere mortals would have been decimated in 0.25 seconds under the basilisk glare that the man-- black workout clothes today, but same expensive briefcase and garment bag-- shoots Maralynn. However, the blonde simply grins back as though the man she’s cheerfully antagonizing didn’t just silently consign her to the sixth level of Hell for the heresy of calling him “Cammy”.  

“It’s a pleasure.” His tone is chillier than ice and belies the words. “Thank you for the coffee.” He only softens his voice a tiny bit as he accepts his to-go cup from Melia, but brusque annoyance aside, he still drops a five-dollar bill into the tip jar before exiting. Melia shoots her friend an exasperated look. 

“You are a menace. An overly chatty blonde menace who has decided to have it out for some poor schmuck who has done absolutely nothing to you. I hope you know that.”

“I KNOW his type!” Maralynn always talks with her hands, and right now, manages to gesticulate vehemently with Venti PSL in tow without spilling a drop. “Guys like him say ‘jump’ and everyone around him says ‘how high?’! Well, it’s going to have to be everyone around him minus yours truly!”

“Ah.” Melia drawls the word into no less than three syllables. “So you mean to encounter him again. I see.”

“Welllll… no. But obviously he likes your coffee as much as I do! Even though he wanted to be a good-looking nice-smelling jerky jerk and insult The One And Only, The Iconic, The Classic, The Available-For-A-Limited-Time Pumpkin Spice Latte like a crazy person!”

“Mmm… have you ever considered writing ad copy for Starbucks after you graduate, child? They’d probably give you free PSL’s for life.”

**

September 15th, 10am

Annette looks up from her highlighting and smiles as Melia takes a seat at the table which has become something of a regular spot for her. “On your break?”

“Yep. Slow morning. Sort of expected, though. Most people are not out and about this early on a Saturday. Which is good, though, because I got the chance to detail-clean the equipment, which is something I don’t usually get to do.”

Annette smiles; only Melia would get excited about something like that. But then again, it was a good quality for someone in culinary-- restaurant cleanliness went a long way in keeping problems such as foodborne illness at bay. And it was good to have a roommate who didn’t leave piles of dirty dishes in the sink or balk about taking out trash. “I sort of like it here like this. I don’t think that I could study when there are just crowds of people.”

“Yeah, that’d probably be pretty hard. Saturday mornings are pretty chill. At least until the suburban moms out visiting their little darlings come in and order twenty-gazillion frappuccinos in rapid succession. Jordan can have them, every last one, bless their hearts.”

“Jordan can have who and what? Who am I having now?” As though on cue, Melia’s coworker comes in for his own shift. Tall and good-looking with a sunny smile to match the golden blond hair, he wraps one colourfully-inked arm around Melia’s shoulders and gives her a playful shake. “Don’t keep giving me people! Think of how they must feel about you abandoning them!”

“We’re talking about the soccer moms who’ll be here later. You know. With their caramel half-caf almond-milk frappuccinos extra syrup. You love those.”

“And they love me. It’s gotta be the tattoos, I think.” Jordan winks, and then grins at Annette. “Hey there, Annette. Happy belated birthday! You should’ve come up here, I would’ve given you a freebie.”

“Oh, thanks, and that isn’t necessary,” Annette murmurs, though she returns his smile. “Lia was already nice enough to make me a cake.”

“Lia lives for making cakes, as I’m sure you’ve realized. I, having no such talents, have to make do with slinging iced tea lemonades. So let me clock in, and I’ll make you one.”

Jordan goes to do just that, and Melia laughs and rolls her eyes. “That guy is a character, I’ll say that much. Though the frappuccino moms do love him, definitely not for the tattoos. Probably because he always notices haircuts and new handbags and stuff. I don’t know how he does it, especially since most guys I know don’t see past tits and asses.”

“Mmm.” Annette pauses, then with an uncharacteristic frankness, looks Melia right in the eye. “I’m pretty sure your gentleman friend, the one who’s in every morning to visit you, notices more than that about you. One of these days when I have lab you should invite him over for dinner.”

Melia looks at her usually-shy roommate, a bit surprised. “What makes you think that?”

Annette takes a sip of her iced tea, then shrugs. “You enjoy his company, and he enjoys yours, and weren’t you trying to test out a new recipe recently anyway and I bowed out because I’m allergic to yellowtail? It just seems logical. I’ve seen him in the grad library pulling a few late nighters too, so I’m sure he’d appreciate a home-cooked meal.”

“I didn’t even know he went to grad school here!” Melia muses aloud. “I wonder what he studies?”

“Perhaps you could ask.”

Unbeknownst to either of them, the slim, copper-blond fellow who’d just walked into the Starbucks could have answered that question, being Noel’s roommate and friend. Shane Greenberg wore tattered jeans and a black t-shirt which brought the pallor of his face, with its delicate features and dark shadows under his eyes, into sharp relief. He glances around the coffee shop a bit warily, and then his eyes land on Annette and sharpen into focus for a moment before he shakes his head as though to clear out any errant cobwebs before making his way to the counter. 

Melia glances up, too, and stands. “I should probably go take his order. Break’s over. I’ll see you later.”

**

September 15th, 10:30am

The girl who takes his order is pretty in that apple-cheeked girl-next-door way, with a friendly smile and chestnut curls pulled back into a practical ponytail. She doesn’t seem too annoyed, either, with the fact that he orders the patently ridiculous selection of a Venti iced Americano with an obscene amount of flavour syrup and practically sucks down half the cup in one go. Shane waits, though, until she’s gone off to the back to do whatever-it-is that baristas do when not visibly taking orders or making coffee, before he works up the nerve to approach the table she’d just sat at, across from Annette. 

Annette, whose name he only knows from reading it off the cup, who is a mystery in all other ways, looks up, and he’s horrifically aware of how pretty and put-together she looks, neat dark hair just brushing the shoulders of a robin’s egg blue sweater. He himself, in contrast, has not seen his bed in thirty or so hours, and he’s certain that he looks like a hot mess.

“Umm,” His mouth is dry as cotton despite the coffee, “Is it alright if I sit down?”

She blushes, an old-fashioned sort of habit which should be anything other than sexy, and nods in assent. “I think I crashed into you outside of here a week ago,” she says faintly. “I meant to offer to clean your shirt for you.”

“Yeah, I know,” he manages a self-deprecating smile, “I meant to buy you another drink. It’s okay.”

“I’m Annette, by the way. Annette Martin.”

He shakes her hand, which is cool and fine-boned, yet there’s an underlying strength in those slim fingers. “Shane. Shane Greenberg. I guess you go to school here, too.”

“Yeah, just started med school. What about you?”

“Medical school?” Shane feels his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, then picks at a fraying thread at his knee. “I thought you were about my age. I’m in my last year of undergrad. I’m doing a double major. Math and music performance.”

“I’m probably about your age or a bit younger,” Annette murmurs over a sip of her iced tea. “I started college when I was sixteen. And, wow. Math and music? That’s quite impressive.”

“Not as impressive as medical school at… what, twenty-one?” Shane glances at the books and papers surrounding her, and clears his throat. “I’m probably bothering you, though. You were studying. Do you want me to go?”

Annette blinks, and those dark eyelashes fluttering over those incredibly clear, impossibly soft blue eyes wreaks havoc on his already shattered nerves. “Y-you don’t have to, if you don’t want to. Do you have work to do, too?”

The assignment for his topology class had him up for the last day and a half, frustrating and complex to the point of damn-near-impossibility. He’s gritty-eyed from lack of sleep and yet, for all the nerves, being in her presence is soothing as the caress of cool water on a hot day. Quietly, he pulls out the slightly-wrinkled assignment out of his book bag, and opens the papers to the page he’d left off. 

**

September 15th, 4pm. 

The “frappuccino mom” rush so-scorned by Melia has come and gone, and yet Annette Martin and the hipster-looking blond who’d joined her are still quietly studying together at their corner table, with a brief break for food around noon. Jordan had long-since cleared away the remnants of her sandwich and his pastry, and doesn’t see fit to make any remarks to Annette about the fact that her companion studies her almost as much as he studies his assignments. Thus far, the guy wasn’t being rude or disrespectful, and it wasn’t really his business. 

He’s just about to go on a break when a mobile order comes in, and he grins a bit when he sees it. A plain green tea and a triple Americano, for Rebecca. She walks in a moment later, looking regal in a burgundy sweater and heels, but gives him a faint smile of recognition. 

“No matcha this time?” Jordan inquires as he slides the two completed drinks across the counter.

“It’s not real matcha,” she replies, arching an eyebrow in a way that would be sassy flirtation on any other girl. “The regular tea wasn’t too bad.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Becky. And the coffee---”

“I’m meeting someone here, and no one has ever called me ‘Becky’,” she says almost severely, then glances up as another person walks through the door. “Oh, Mr. Hayes. You’re here. Thanks for coming.”

“Not a problem.” Jordan’s seen the guy before. His name is Cameron, and he usually makes an appearance on the tail end of overnight shifts, somehow finding the energy to bicker with Maralynn Avery at the ungodly hour of 4am, and it’s a bit disconcerting to see him now, with a different woman. He’s wearing a neatly pressed button-up and dress pants despite it being the weekend, and when he sits down across the table from Rebecca, they look like every stereotypical power couple ever seen on TV: beautiful and polished and stern and invincible. And yet… much like the stereotypical power couple on TV, there’s something that wants realism. It’s disturbing and fascinating and compelling and repelling all at once, and Jordan wonders why he even has an opinion. They’re two customers out of legion, and he really doesn’t know either of them.

**

September 15th, 4:15pm

“It’s not that I didn’t enjoy interning at your office, don’t get me wrong,” Rebecca tells Cameron Hayes, white collar crimes prosecutor for the State Attorney’s office, with a wry smile. “It was an invaluable experience, and I’d like to think that we worked well together.”

“Certainly,” Cameron sips his coffee and steeples his fingers. “I understand, though. I did the same thing when I was your age-- got a bunch of different experience. You meet a lot of people that way, and plus, get a better idea of what you’re actually getting into. I actually suggest you continue to do so as much as your course-load will allow. Do you have any idea what type of place you’d want to try, next?”

Rebecca wrinkles her nose over a sip of her tea. “Well, much as it’d give daddy dearest a thrill if it’s in corporate law, I don’t think I want to do that. At least, not yet.”

“You could try family law. It can be a bit nerve-wracking, certainly, but I think you’d be able to handle it. I’ve a friend from law school whose practice specializes in that.” Cameron opens his briefcase and digs out a white business card. “Her name is Hayley Tanner. I think you’d like her, actually. She’s quite the tough lady.”

“Well, she must be, if you say so,” Rebecca laughs quietly. “I’ve seen you in court, remember. I’m surprised that guy you put away last summer for the Ponzi scheme didn’t pee himself during the closing statements.”

“Yes, well… he defrauded retirees out of their life savings, bankrupted and ruined a bunch of people. He deserved to be scared.”

“I think you succeeded. So, you think I should apply for Ms. Tanner’s firm, then?”

“Yes, I think so.” Cameron finishes his coffee and shuts his briefcase. “The most notable case she’s had made the papers about two years ago. State vs. Tomoe. The disgraced, former award-winning scientist with the abused young daughter.”

“Oh, I remember that!” Rebecca smiles. “I’ll definitely give her a call.”

“Yes, do that. You can put me down as a reference, tell her to give me a call.” An ironic sort of smile crosses Cameron’s face. “Not that she doesn’t do that regularly, anyway. I think we both tend to check up on each other just to make sure the other person’s still alive.”

“Fair enough.” Rebecca’s just about to thank him again for his time when someone approaches the table, a blonde bombshell wearing a breezy butter-yellow swing dress. “Oh, hey, Maralynn,” she greets the other girl, but it’s Cameron’s reaction which makes her pause. 

“You know her?” Her former boss all but chokes out, sitting ramrod straight and looking at anything but the newcomer. 

“Yeah, we lived on the same floor in the dorms freshman and sophomore years before we both got our own apartments,” Rebecca says, raising an eyebrow. “You know her?”

The “No” Cameron says is drowned out by Maralynn’s mischievous voice, “Aww, Cammy, don’t be shy! We’re practically coffee buddies now, aren’t we? This is like the fifth time I’ve run into you here, and it’s not even morning yet! Don’t let me interrupt, though. Dates are important.”

“We are not on a date,” Cameron grits out, standing up. “Miss Hewitt interned at my office last summer. We were meeting up for something work-related.”

“Oh.” Maralynn drawls. “Well, then, I will leave you and Miss Hewitt-- God, Rebecca, that makes you sound so old and serious-- to it. I’ll go say hi to Jordan.”

It’s only after the blonde makes her way to the counter that Cameron glances in her direction, discreetly, out of the corner of his eye. Rebecca notes, as he does, the affectionate hug that Maralynn bestows upon the blond barista Jordan across the counter before she places her order, then glances at the dregs of her now-cold tea with a frown. 

“Hmm, I should probably get going,” Cameron says, breaking into her thoughts and the unspoken tension of the moment. “Good luck, and let me know if you need any more help.”

“I will. Thanks for meeting me.”

“Not a problem. Thanks for the coffee.” Decorously, he stands, and walks out of the cafe, leaving Rebecca to her thoughts. Vaguely, she’s aware that Maralynn and the barista-- Jordan-- are still chatting it up in the background. Something about some professor or another. Feeling oddly out of place, as though she’d overstayed her welcome somehow, she gathers up her own things and leaves.

**

September 16th, 4am

It’s that time of fall when the days are still sunny but the nights start turning cool, and Noel Vaughn has taken to wearing a jacket when he walks out of Coda, late at night. It had been a rather busy night, and really, he should head on home to sleep before tackling the Astrodynamics research project. And yet… 

The beacon of the twenty-four-hour Starbucks shines ahead, brightly green and white, and he smiles wryly to himself even as his feet make the short trek next door, and right on cue, a gorgeous brunette Amazon comes down the street at a brisk clip, long legs eating up the pavement, auburn hair almost the same colour as the burnished autumn leaves overhead. Melia’s wearing her green uniform apron and a pink hoodie that’s definitely seen better days, and yet she still manages to be more attractive than the scores of tipsy club-goers in their weekend finery that had just staggered out of his club an hour ago.

He opens the door for her, watches as she walks inside, curly hair fluttering about her shoulders before she ties it back in a sensible ponytail, and really, it is the height of boorishness to check out a lady while she’s at work. Certainly, he of all people would know; on more than one occasion, he’d been called upon to deal with rude, drunken louts who refused to leave the female bartenders or cocktail waitresses alone at the piano bar. And so he resorts to the usual polite small-talk as he pays for his cold brew and pastry, and lingers at the milk bar in an effort to prolong the conversation by a scant few minutes. It’s almost always the same-- Melia chatters about her work, asks him about his, and the inane pleasantries are slowly killing him. Certainly there must be a happy medium between this rote and meaningless small talk and being that obnoxious creeper who insisted on hitting on a girl while she was on the clock.

Melia, though, seems to have different ideas. Perhaps it’s because she anticipates a slow morning, or perhaps she feels like chatting, but instead of walking to the back after making his coffee, she, too, lingers by the counter. Her smile has all the warmth of a cozy sweater and the sweetness of cinnamon sugar. “Busy night?”

“Yeah, a bit, but that’s probably to be expected. The weather’s not always going to be this nice, and right now’s a good time during the term for partying-- people have settled in, but it’s before stuff really starts heating up with projects and exams, yeah?”

“I suppose that’s true.” She leans her elbows on the glass-fronted display case and peers up at him curiously. “My roommate’s seen you around the grad library,” she ventures, and is it his imagination or have her cheeks gone a little pink? “She’s super smart-- starting medical school two years early. I didn’t know you went to school here, too.”

It’s probably the first real conversation they have, and Noel abandons even the pretense of fiddling with his coffee. “I do. I’m working on my PhD. Aerospace engineering-- specifically, in the field of Orbital mechanics.”

Her green eyes widen in surprise and her mouth drops open just a little. It’d be a silly look on anyone else, he thinks, and then she lets out a little laugh. “So you’re what we call a rocket scientist in layman’s terms. Well, goodness. And here I thought I had it tough pulling doubles here after shadowing a super high-maintenance pâtissier last week.”

“So you’re in the culinary arts program. No wonder all the different treats you bring in.” Noel grins, and she returns it.

“Well. Mostly testing recipes. You know. Before I actually have to turn anything in for a grade.”

“From what I have tried, I’m sure that you won’t have any problems with that, either.” Noel chuckles and shakes his head. “I can just about manage scrambled eggs and only-slightly-burnt toast and a fairly decent PB & J. Let’s just say that my roommate and I get a lot of takeout.”

Melia doesn’t reply immediately, and from the highly distracting way she’s biting her lower lip and fiddling with the gift card display on the counter, it almost seems as though she’s trying to come to a decision about something. He can almost see her making up her mind in the way she squares her shoulders and lifts her surprisingly delicate chin. 

“Actually… well. This is probably an odd request, and you can definitely say no, and not feel bad at all, but I was wondering if you’d like to come over to my place for dinner.” Before Noel can even blink in surprise, she hurries forth with an explanation, words tripping over themselves in a rush. “I have a few recipes I’d like to test. I don’t want them to read as boring, you see. I want them to read as creative and interesting without being inaccessible or too… snobbish, for lack of a better term. It would actually be a huge favour to me. I mean, not if that makes you feel uncomfortable or anything, or…”

Her words trail off as he pulls out his phone and sets it down on the counter, typing in her name under new contacts, then sliding it over to her. “Here, add your number.” She does, and he texts her a quick “Hi!” followed by a smiley face emoji before putting it back into his pocket. He’s fairly sure his face matches that emoji in the most embarrassing sort of way, but that can’t completely be helped. “All right. When do you want to do this?”

Her smile is a bit embarrassed but radiant all the same. “I’m free tonight. We can make it somewhat early-- around five or so-- if you have to work.”

“It’s a date.” He should be past the age where saying those words make his heart skip a beat, but there you have it, and all of the sudden, it occurs to him that there’s an enormous amount of stuff he has to do to prepare, not the least of which involves taking a shower and buying some flowers, maybe a nice bottle of wine. “I’ll call you later? We can figure out the details?”

She nods, and he all but runs out of there. Rocket scientist notwithstanding, it’d take a non-existent time machine, or, barring that, a lot of running about to get through all he meant to do that day in good time for that evening. 

At the milk bar, his forgotten coffee and pastry sit, neatly packaged, in front of a napkin dispenser and a cinnamon shaker.

**

September 16th, 7pm

The violinist plays Vivaldi with the verve of a stormy sea, her striking face half-hidden behind a sheaf of wavy hair, and though there’s a full orchestra playing behind her, it’s all but faded into the background against the force of the music streaming from her bow. Meara Kyne is a rock star in every sense of the word-- a former concert violinist turned music school department chair and composition professor-- and though she does not perform very often anymore, she’s a force to behold when she does take the stage.

The performance is not open to the public, but as a music student, Shane has the privilege of attending it. The violin is not his instrument, but there is absolutely no question of his teacher’s mastery of it. He’d taken piano lessons since he was tall enough to climb onto the stool, and yet, this sort of oneness with the instrument, with the music-- this was a level he’d yet to achieve. 

The audience breaks into enthusiastic applause at the conclusion of the performance, and really, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons is perhaps the most universally recognizable musical set for a violinist to perform. It should be trite and overdone and ordinary. And yet, it’s transcendent at the violinist’s talented hands. Shane hangs back, and waits until everyone else has left, and Professor Kyne finally emerges from the rehearsal rooms with her instrument back in its case and a navy blue coat over her concert dress.

She does not seem particularly shocked to see him, and smiles in a rather benevolent way. “Did you enjoy the music, Shane?”

“Very much,” he answers. She’s a brilliant enigma in class and nothing short of spectacular on stage, and he can’t fathom how one might attain that type of panache. “How do you do it?”

“Play the violin? Lots of practice, not unlike your piano.” Meara Kyne laughs softly. “But that is not what you meant, of course. I daresay I played better than average tonight, in all honesty. But you need not fret, Shane. You just have to put your heart in it.”

Shane bites his tongue before he can make any sort of retort about the long hours practicing, the cramping fingers, the eye-strain of reading pages and pages of manuscript like so many black inkblots leaping chaotically across five-lined paper, the sleepless nights. It’s blood-and-tears work, a long-term commitment that takes as much out of a person as strenuous physical labor. 

His composition professor gives him a sort of almost-sisterly pat on the shoulder with elegant yet calloused fingers. “It’s a labor of love. Even when you’re playing someone else’s music, how much you care will translate into every nuance and every note. But it will truly show when it’s your own. You play very well, even when you play from the head, and you have a very smart, creative mind. I’m sure you will be successful enough even if you don’t progress any further than you are now. But I have faith that you will find that reason-- that one person or thing that will fill you with every emotion a person can feel, and take from you everything you have to give.”

It sounds rather terrifying, and perhaps something of that shows on his face, but she smiles again. “When you find that, Shane, treat it like the gift it is. You’ll never have never played so well before. But, you’ll never have been so happy, so despairing, so uplifted and so drained, either. In any case, I will see you in class tomorrow. Have a good evening.”

She leaves with the faint click of heeled shoes on the polished floor, and Shane slowly makes his way across campus to wander about and mull over her words. He should go home. Certainly, Noel would be gone by now-- hot date tonight, according to frantic walls-of-text earlier during the day. The pretty barista from Starbucks.

Starbucks.

The scent of white tea lemonade and deep, mesmerizingly blue eyes. Annette. She’d probably be there now, studying. 

His footsteps quickening, he made his way up that now-familiar street. 

**

September 20th, 4pm

“Well, Miss Hewitt, all your credentials are very impressive.” Hayley Tanner of Tanner and Associates is a tall, strikingly androgynous blonde with a gamine cap of wheat-coloured hair and an easy, almost cheeky smile, quite at odds with her keen, steel-blue eyes. “I would expect nothing less, though, if you managed to not only score an internship with our super serious mutual friend last summer, but to do well enough that he would send you along my way.”

“I learned quite a lot working with Mr. Hayes last summer,” Rebecca remarks. “He’s very dedicated, and quite young to be as successful a prosecutor as he is, isn’t he?”

“Cameron was always a bit of a wunderkind, though he’ll deny it to his dying breath if you asked,” Hayley chuckles, fiddling with a fitbit with a bright blue band that matched her suit precisely. “Now, family law’s a bit different than prosecuting white collar crime. You have to be tough for both, certainly, but these cases tend to hit where it hurts, more often than not. Sure, con artists and the like are scum, but an abusive parent or spouse? Scum on a completely different level. Your qualifications are great, certainly, but is that something you can handle, even tangentially?”

“Yes, I can. I volunteered at a women’s shelter all four years of high school, so I know what I’d be in for. My mom was a social worker. It’s why I chose to minor in women’s studies.” Steadfast violet eyes meet blue across the glossy blond oak desk. “My father’s a partner at Hewitt and Kearney and would probably prefer I intern at his firm, or something similar. I think… I think I’d be better suited elsewhere.”

“Hewitt and Kearney, hmm? Thomas Hewitt’s your father, then? He’s quite a big name in corporate law.”

Rebecca shrugs, the gesture more telling than words could ever be, though she doesn’t know it. Hayley gives her CV another brief once-over, and leans back in her swivel chair. 

“All right then, Miss Hewitt. I’ll give you a chance. Let’s say, about ten hours a week, split into two days? You can work out the scheduling details with my assistant at the front desk. Blaise will get you situated.”

A hurried thank-you and handshake later, Rebecca found herself exchanging information with Blaise, whose work station featured a plethora of colourful desk toys and whose charming smile and demeanor almost concealed the almost inhuman efficiency at which she fit Rebecca into the firm’s databases and schedule. “We’ll put you on researching the newest custody case,” she tells Rebecca genially, sliding up her black-framed glasses with a Legally Blonde-esque pink fuzzy pen. “I’m sure lots of law firms pretty much set interns up with filing and coffee-making and take-out-fetching. Big-ass waste of everyone’s time, don’t you think?”

“Well, I must say that I’m glad that I’ll get to do some real work,” Rebecca smiles. 

“Oh, tons. As much as you can handle in these few months, though… we’re not going to put more than just the ten hours a week. It can be stressful work sometimes, and you’re still in school, all that jazz. All right. So, we’ll be seeing you next Monday. Don’t be late. Hayley looks pretty chill, but she really hates it when people are late.”

“I’m pretty sure Becky has never been late a day in her life.” To her utter shock, a smooth masculine voice which should not at all be familiar sounds right behind her, and Rebecca whirls around in more than a little shock and consternation. A black bomber jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder. A pale blue button-down with its sleeves rolled up to reveal smooth, colourfully-inked forearms. A sunny smile to match the sunny hair. “Well, small world.” The young man she knows as the good-looking blond barista at Starbucks is standing in front of her, looking as though he has every right to be there. 

“You… what are you doing here?” The question is borderline rude and pops out before she can stop herself. 

“Oh, I sometimes do PR for them.” The casual way he says it clues Rebecca in to just how involved he must actually be in the firm’s business. “I’m working on my MBA, actually. Though… I do love having conversations with you about Starbucks’ substandard green tea.”

“Gosh, Jordan, how many times do I have to tell you to play nice to the new people?” Blaise tosses a miniature Rubik’s cube-- all colours correctly aligned-- at the blond’s head. “I’m sure Rebecca-- can I call you Rebecca?--  has no time for your shenanigans. And you so know Hayley will bust your balls if you antagonize her new intern.”

“I have nothing but respect for Hayley and her new intern, whom I happen to have made the acquaintance of, at the other job,” Jordan says, shooting Rebecca a grin as he catches the Rubik’s cube one-handed and scrambles the tiles with dexterous fingers before tossing it back. “I could even say that she’s become one of my favourite customers.”

“I’m SURE,” Blaise drawls, catching the cube and immediately setting about solving it with one hand as the other types away at her computer. “Hayley has a conference call, but it shouldn’t be too long. You can wait here until she’s done as long as you don’t get underfoot.”

“Me? I never get underfoot,” Jordan’s the picture of wide-eyed innocence, but then he turns another smile towards Rebecca. “Well, then. I guess I’ll be seeing you around a bit more, hmm? Maybe we’ll have a real conversation one of these days.”

Rebecca makes a noncommittal noise and excuses herself, still feeling a bit ill-at-ease with this new development. Certainly she’s not sure of what having a real conversation with a young man she’d rashly assumed was the typical hipster barista would entail, what with these new and unexpected revelations. But under the slight sense of unease is a feeling of anticipation. She rationalizes it as excitement that she’d gotten the internship.

Any other explanation could not be countenanced aloud, even to herself. 

**

September 24th, 4am

There is only one girl in his entire acquaintance who would pair a little black dress with glittery gold shoes and matching heart-shaped sunglasses with gold mirrored lenses. In the middle of the night at that. Somehow, Maralynn manages to pull it off as she walks into the mostly-deserted Starbucks in a flurry of flowery perfume and golden hair. Jordan smiles and fetches the makings for a Venti PSL before she even comes up to the counter.

“Can you even see in those?” he asks, even as Maralynn moves the sunglasses up to the top of her head. Despite the shades and the late hour, her eye makeup is a riot of sparkles and shimmer. 

“Oh, totally. The place I was at had a lot of strobes and disco balls and stuff.” Maralynn accepts the drink with a toothy grin. “Good DJ though! He sort of had one of those irritating fancy-waitstaff vests, except in a non-fine-dining-sanctioned shade of electric violet, but he did his thing with the tunes. Oh, and even though the drinks were super over-priced, the bartender didn’t bat an eyelash when I asked her for a mojito. Usually they get so uppity about mojitos.”

“They’re a pain in the ass to make, but then again so are frappuccinos, and yet the plethora of giggly girls who seem to live off of them as though they’re a major food group keep me fed, clothed, and all that, so I can’t complain overmuch. At least to no one’s face. I didn’t know you were the mojito type, though.”

“Well, no. But see, if I ordered a fruity pink concoction like usual, I wouldn’t be taken seriously despite the LBD, and if I ordered a Long Island, I wouldn’t be upright in these shoes, so…”

Jordan chuckles and shakes cinnamon over whipped cream, then drizzles caramel sauce on before putting on the lid. “Fair enough. Here you go.”

“And don’t play like you live off of this Starbucks paycheck only and don’t have your fingers in multiple other pies including being on retainer for your cousin’s law firm. Or that this is more of an excuse for you to network and people-watch and stuff than because you are fond of making coffee.”

“Well, of course. Where else would I meet pretty girls like you?”

“Jordan Lee, you know damn well you met me in Langley Hall  standing like a ditz in front of Professor Lewis’ office waiting for him to show up for ‘office hours’ not knowing he was out of town that week. Also we are so besties but not each other’s type, and you know this too. You are totally the Ed Sheeran to my Tay-Tay, you know, just minus the ginger and British and the sort of weird face, though face or no, ‘Thinking Out Loud’ is still my jam, so it’s okay.”

“Annnnd on that note, I think you need to lay off the mojitos, sweetheart,” Jordan drawls. “Give the poor bartenders out there a break. Let Hemingway’s drink die with him, if it’s going to put you in this weird mental place wherein you compare your friends with the Taylor Swift Squad.”

At that exact moment, the door opens to admit not one, but two other people who commonly interacted with Maralynn at this hour of the morning at Starbucks: Melia in her green apron, and Cameron-- in an actual three-piece suit today instead of his workout clothes. Maralynn takes one beaming glance at the newcomers, and wraps an arm around both. Cameron flinches in a way which suggests that he doesn’t know a gentlemanly way to disengage her.

“I think it’s totally perfect! Lia is totally Selena with the brunette bombshell thing, and Cammy is totally Karlie, with the snazzy duds and the awesome judgmental-y eyebrow thing he does that would look awful if he hadn’t such a pretty face.” For good measure, Maralynn plants a smacking kiss on Melia’s cheek, then does the same to Cameron, who stiffens, a flush of red creeping up the back of his neck.

“I… don’t want to know. Excuse me, please.” Cameron gingerly ducks from underneath her arm and approaches the counter, ordering his usual Americano with a voice even more terse than normal. 

Maralynn gasps theatrically behind him, clutching a hand to her chest in a dramatic gesture. “You don’t want to know? You mean, you don’t know??” She swivels her head towards Melia and Jordan with a piteous expression. “Help me, guys. He doesn’t know!”

Jordan rolls his eyes, but pulls out youtube on his phone. A moment later, “CAUSE BABY NOW WE GOT BAD BLOOD!” signals the start of the song. Taking pity at the extra-stoical expression on their customer’s face, Jordan mutes the video, and then pauses it at a certain spot. 

“This girl. I think she says she thinks you look something like her. Or something. I’m not sure, she said she had a mojito or five at the bar so it might be the rum talking.”

“I… see.” Cameron’s voice is dryer and flatter than a week-old pancake. Without another word, he chugs half the cup of coffee that’s handed to him without an iota of concern of its scalding hot temperature, as though he required a lot more caffeine in his system than was currently present before he could contemplate dignifying Maralynn’s antics with a response. “And dare I ask the… purpose of this exercise?”

“Oh, nothing. Just having some fun, Cammy. You should be flattered, though. Karlie is totally hot. And smart. I’d totally do her if I went for girls and was famous and rich and stuff.”

Cameron, stone-faced, though there’s now a flush in his high cheekbones to match the back of his neck, steps out of the cafe before she can say anything else. Behind the counter, Jordan and Melia exchange raised-eyebrow glances, though they don’t say anything to Maralynn as she adds two packets of sugar to an already-sugary drink. 

“Alright, you two lovely people, I should probably toddle on home to my computer and my kitty-cat and my shower and my bed, probably in that order. Stay ginger and British and talented, Jordan. Stay away from Biebs, Lia. Good night. Or morning. Whatever you want to call it, my loves. Don’t do anything I would do.”

“Yeah, it will be difficult, but I think I can just about manage to refrain from flirting with scary lawyer types,” Melia says dryly after the door has safely shut behind Maralynn. “What about you, Jordan?”

“No promises. Scary lawyer types are hot.”

**

September 27th, 6pm

It should feel awkward, Annette thinks as she makes her way down to the residential side of town. Shane’s a friend, though, sort of. A study buddy despite the fact that they studied totally different things. And, as welcoming as the Starbucks was, it was inadequate for some of the work he had to do by dint of the simple fact that it lacked a piano.

“You can come over,” he had said, casually, his fingers drumming to a silent rhythm on the surface of the table. “My roommate’s not home. Not that it really matters-- we have a pretty good system because both of us are night owls and therefore he doesn’t care if I’m up at all hours pounding away on the keys. We each have our own floor, though the kitchen’s shared, not that either of us really use it.”

So she finds herself following him up the shallow porch steps of one of the multi-floor apartments on his street, waiting behind him as he digs out his keys, unlocks the door. 

The interior of his home isn’t quite as neat as the apartment that she and Melia share. The white walls are decorated with several art prints-- M. C. Escher and Salvador Dali and Andy Warhol-- but the carpet is standard issue industrial, and the windows feature generic vertical blinds. The wood of the coffee table in the living room is scarred and a bit water-stained, but dominating one corner is a glossy ebony Kawai grand piano, while in another, almost like an opposing chess piece, is a shiny white full-sized Yamaha digital piano hooked up to a gaming-spec laptop. 

Shane follows her glance around the room, and a self-deprecating smile crosses his lips for a moment. “That saying about boys and their toys, you know?”

“It’s something you need for your field of study,” Annette says evenly. “My roommate’s in culinary, and I’m pretty sure that a few of the gadgets she has in our humble kitchen are restaurant-grade and cost a pretty penny, too.” The piano doesn’t have so much as a single speck of dust on it, and even its stool is polished to a gleam. “You know, I’ve never heard you play.”

Shane pauses, and for a split second, blinks as though startled. “Oh. I suppose you haven’t. Umm, is there anything you like?”

“I…” Now it’s her turn to pause. “I don’t know. Whatever you wish.”

He takes a seat on the piano stool, lays his hands over the keys. A moment later, strains of something dreamy and slightly moody pour out. It’s a song which sounds vaguely familiar, played exquisitely. 

“That’s beautiful,” she says when he stops. “What is it called?”

“It’s Liszt’s Liebestraum #3.” A faintly ironic smile crosses his face, though she doesn’t know why. “It’s actually the third part of three pieces which sort of form a whole, bigger piece, the title of which translates into ‘A Dream of Love’. The first is exalted love-- spiritual love. The second is erotic love.” She blushes, though he’s not even looking at her. “And that which I just played… unrequited love.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose I see why it’s the most popular.” There’s almost a note of tension in the room that has never been there before, and she coughs to clear her suddenly-dry throat. “So, what is it that you wanted to work on?”

“Well, you know how normal people have senior thesis projects and the like? Okay. I do have one for math, on Chance and Choice. But, more to my point, the closest I have to that for music is my comp final.” Absently, his fingers noodle over the keys, cajoling out a soft and melancholy tune. “I’m a good pianist, I know that. But so are a lot of people. Without something-- more-- I have no prospects after this term outside of playing some bastardized version of ‘80s power ballads at a bar for a few bucks.” Almost as though his words synced together with his hands and mind, the slightly grandiose opening bars of “Take My Breath Away” sound out beneath his fingers, made more elegant with the switch from electric guitar and drums to simple acoustic piano. A crooked smile crosses his lips, even as he switches back to what he was playing before. “I mean, it could be worse. I’m an arrogant little shit, as my roommate tells me all the time, but I could be a completely unemployed arrogant little shit. And of course there’s always the off-chance-- which I could probably calculate to a very depressing certainty, so I’m just going to leave it alone-- that some big shot music producer from California or Nashville, who was randomly on vacation in a total non-tourist destination like our exalted college town will drop in at the local neighbourhood dive, and snatch me up.”

“You’re underrating yourself, I think.” Annette makes herself comfortable on the couch-- slightly scarred and faded black leather-- and pulls out one of her textbooks. “You know how lucky you are. Creativity and critical thinking are sometimes seen as opposing cerebral forces by most people-- most people lack one or the other. You have both. I don’t doubt for a moment but that you’ll succeed at coming up with something.”

His playing pauses, and she can all but see his eyes sharpen as they stare at her, then he moves to the digital piano and computer set-up on the other side of the room. “Okay. I can fiddle away at it. Don’t worry-- I’ll have headphones on. I know you have that test coming up.”

The couch is comfortable and she does have a test the next week in Biochemistry, but she steals a few glances at him over the edge of her notes. The big noise-cancelling headphones are black and boxy against his fair hair and the room’s almost eerily quiet. She thinks she misses the music, after all.

**

September 30th, 1pm

Noel, though he must have worked late last night, looks bright-eyed and alert when he comes to pick her up. His hair’s getting long, and skims his broad shoulders. He’s wearing a cozy-looking flannel shirt in that red-and-black plaid pattern which every guy ever seems to own, but on him it looks comfortable rather than hipster poseur or unkempt. 

He takes a moment to look down at her, press a light kiss to her temple, before stepping back with a smile. “You look nice.”

“Oh, hush. I’m wearing old jeans and boots because orchards tend to be muddy.” He smells clean, like simple soap rather than cloying cologne, and the shirt is as soft as it looks. 

“All right. So, the apple orchard. I love getting cider doughnuts, I will fully admit. And haunted hayrides were fun when I was a kid.”

“Pfft. You go to get actual apples for making actual pie. Apples that aren’t waxed and hormone-d all to Hell. I’m not a snotty, self-righteous, organic, gluten-free vegan or anything, but just trust me in this. You’re getting a free pie out of this, so just go with it.”

“I’m also getting to spend some time with you.”

It’s a simple statement and should be cliched, and really, their relationship is in its infancy stages. But it is warm, and comforting, and as cozy as the flannel shirt against her cheek as he puts his car in reverse with one arm behind her head. The apple orchard is doing a brisk business as dozens of families come in for a day of weekend fun, and soon enough, they’re deep in the neat lanes of trees. True to her prediction, the ground’s a bit muddy, but that doesn’t stop the two of them from making their way through the fields. Noel seems content to let her do most of the picking, shouldering the hefty bag with little effort. He lights up like a kid in a candy store when they reach the farm market at the orchard’s entrance, and buys half a dozen cider doughnuts along with the apples they picked before driving her back to her place. 

Melia picks through the various bags of apples, and selects three of one type, three of another, then dons a very familiar green apron with a smile. “This is going to be a bit floury, so I’m not going to want to get it all over myself.” Moving quickly and efficiently, she flips on the oven, pulls out sticks of butter, sealed canisters of flour, salt, brown and white sugar, cinnamon sticks and nutmeg and ginger, a bottle of pale brown liquid with a vanilla bean suspended inside, and a halved lemon.

“First, I’m going to make the pie crust.” She cuts cold butter into the flour, adds salt, and mixes it, adding water little by little. The dough forms a ball, and she makes a slight indentation in it before moving to the freezer and pulling out a bottle of vodka. After pouring in a tiny amount into her dough, she flours the counter and rolls it out competently under Noel’s interested gaze.

“The vodka settles the gluten so the crust is flaky instead of rubbery,” she explains, dexterously flipping the completed circle of pie crust into a pie plate, then poking holes in it with a fork. She flutes the edges before putting it into the freezer, then starts on the apples. 

“I’m using half Honeycrisp and half Granny Smith for this pie so there’s a mix of sweet and tart. They both stand up well to the oven without getting turned into mush.” She peels, chops, spritzes the pieces with lemon juice to keep them from browning, then coats them in melted butter before compounding her pie spice. “Bourbon vanilla, just a little goes a long way. This forms sort of a caramel as it bakes.” She tosses the apples in sugar and spice, then takes the chilled pie crust out of the freezer and dumps them in before starting on a streusel topping. 

It’s less than an hour later that the kitchen is warm and filled with incredible scents, and soon enough, Melia dons a pair of forest green oven mitts and pulls the steaming, fragrant pie out of the oven. “Ta-da! Let me get some ice cream out the freezer and you can try a slice now.”

“Oh God, that’s amazing.” He barely waits for it to cool down from scalding. “Where did you get the recipe?”

“Many years of experimenting with different things,” she quips. “There was a pretty good one in a cookbook at my aunt’s, but I sort of fiddled with it some more until it was where I wanted it to be. She didn’t do the orchard thing too often, either, but it’s still decent with regular apples from the store.”

The fact that Melia mentions an aunt rather than a parent catches Noel’s attention, but he doesn’t comment on it. She’d mentioned, quite early on in their acquaintance, that she’d been raised by an aunt after her parents had passed, but she’d never discussed the particulars. “All your extra steps and such are totally worth it.”

“I’m glad you think it’s okay.”

It’s possibly the most sinfully delicious apple pie that Noel has ever tasted, bursting sweet and tart and spicy over his tongue. But even that pales in comparison to the girl in front of him, smudges of flour on her cheek and dusting that familiar green apron, her fingers still damp from rolling dough and cutting apples. It’s not at all a fancy date at a fancy restaurant in fancy clothes. And they still have a lot to learn about each other.

But it’s perfect.


	2. The Month Of October

October 5th, 8pm

“I have all of last year’s reports from the school social worker, sorted by date and time. There are quite a few.”

“You, my new best friend, are a lifesaver. And not in the doughnut-shaped cherry-flavoured candy way.” Ava Channing is another lawyer in Hayley Tanner’s law firm, a spitfire of a woman always ready with a quip and a seemingly endless supply of sweets in a cut-glass candy bowl on her desk. “You know that you totally don’t have to stay here with me burning the midnight oil, right? Hayley would not expect you to be in here slaving away instead of going out and enjoying your youth on a Friday night.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m not a huge partier, really. And really, the red solo cup, beer pong and Jager bombs part of the college experience is overrated. Once or twice is enough, I’d think.”

“Ugh, Jager bombs. I forgot about those, for good reason. A good, bold, in-your-face red wine is where it’s at. Okay, well, I’ll send Blaise on a Starbucks run in a second, if you’re staying. What would you like? I am going to be a bad, bad person and order a venti caramel macchiato extra, extra caramel and be wired and screw the calories because little Eddie Linden deserves to grow up in a loving home instead of a dysfunctional hellhole, and we will make that happen for him.”

Rebecca stares very hard at the top of the stack of school reports. The school social worker’s name is Liz Underhill and she has very pretty, rather old-fashioned script-y handwriting. It’s easy to focus on that rather than to think about Starbucks. “Umm. Green tea. Just regular green tea. Thank you.” Her voice almost sounds normal, and she fiddles unnecessarily with the school reports, lining them up meticulously at the corners. “Would you like me to start on the financial statements?”

**

October 5th, 8:15pm

“Good evening and welcome. What can I do for you, my friend?”

“Oh, just the coffee run for those of us who are working late tonight. I need a Venti caramel macchiato extra, extra caramel drizzle for Ava, a Grande passion-fruit iced tea for Adrianna, and a tall green tea for Rebecca. Oh, and chai latte for me. Sweet and delicious because sweets for the sweet.”

“Right. Because you’re such a sweetheart,” Jordan laughs even as he starts the drinks. “And how is the newest addition to The Law Firm of Bamf-y Women holding up?”

“She’s good. I like her so far. She’s up there now helping Ava with a custody case, and she really seems to be interested in what we do and so on. But, men being beastly creatures, I’m sure that’s not why you ask.” Blaise gives him a penetrating look over the rim of her glasses. “She’s very pretty. And thus far, competent and punctual. Hayley is loading her up with work and she doesn’t seem to mind.”

“My cousin has no shame.”

“Good that you know that. Runs in the family, I’m sure. But she’s handling it. Says the workload working for the State Attorney’s office was pretty hardcore, too.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“She worked for Cameron Hayes. Have you seen that guy? I’m glad he’s not using his powers for evil rather than good. He’d probably make a killing-- end up in hell or prison or both-- but make a killing nonetheless, crushing souls for a gigantic corporation.”

“Oh, he comes here for coffee a few times a week, generally at an indecently early hour. Not particularly chatty, but I’m pretty sure Maralynn chats enough for the both of them.”

“Maralynn as in youtube Maralynn? Chats him up? Shut the front door!” 

“You can cuss around here, I don’t care.”

“Yeah, but I’d have to put a dollar in the cuss jar on the principle of the thing. Anyway, your girl seems to run on an even keel for the most part, though she does get pretty riled up in a super dignified yet impassioned way over the rights of women and children in abusive relationships and the like. Her heart’s in the right place, definitely.” Blaise leaves the change for the coffee order in the tip jar and gives him another sly glance. “We’re probably going to kick her out the office in another hour or two. What time do you get off work?”

**

October 5th, 11pm

The custody case that she’s helping prep for Ava Channing involves a boy with a dead mother and a deadbeat dad and hits close to home, and Rebecca is barely aware of the time as she sits in the conference room and goes through the child’s school reports. It’s stark and heartbreaking-- a five-year-old who has holes in the toes of his too-small shoes and can’t even muster up a smile for story time-- but the very sadness of the case fuels her. Finishing off the dregs of her now-cold green tea, she moves onto the next stack of reports-- these from various banks and credit agencies detailing the financial statements of the parties involved in the custody battle. 

Ava Channing is pacing across the conference room like a caged tiger, her fabulous stilettos silent on the carpeted floor. “I’ve seen worse. I keep telling myself that, you know? But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to strangle Daddy Dearest, every time. I have to remind myself about the whole pesky 25-to-life thing.”

“But it’s good that you care. You’ll fight that much harder to win because you care.” 

“I know, I know.” Ava smirks. “And then I tell myself it could be worse. I could be drafting some horrid prenup for an over-privileged mid-life-crisis-having tycoon about to hook up with his third trophy wife.”

“I heard that,” says Adrianna Heath, another lawyer in the firm who was doing just that. “For the record, the latest soon-to-be Mrs Broderick Lawrence is a wealthy woman in her own right-- Amber Ellsworth’s family owns a bunch of jewelry stores. Mind, if I owned a jewelry store, I’d not do anything so tacky as to name my daughters Ruby and Amber, but what do I know?”

“Yeah, you have fun with that. Just imagine if they had a son?”

“They do. He’s named Morris after his father. Morris Barnes Ellsworth III.”

“Ooh, the injustice of it all! Lifestyles of the rich and famous, indeed. Tacky or douchey or a combination of both. I think I’ll take my dysfunctional families, after all.”

There’s an unexpected knock on the conference door. Blaise had gone home an hour ago, but whoever it was would’ve had to been an employee of the firm to be able to get into the building at this hour. Ava, who is the closest to the door, pulls it open, then raises an eyebrow and grins.

“Well, look who’s here, ladies. And is that food? Oh God, you are now officially my favourite guy in the world after my husband and Chris Hemsworth.”

“That’s some pretty big shoes to fill on both counts. Blaise told me you ladies were working late when she picked up the coffee. This is spinach pesto lasagna, compliments of my coworker Melia, who’s in culinary arts.”

It’s fragrant and bubbling with cheese on the top. “This has got to be fattening as hell, but I’m going to tell myself that it has spinach and pesto and is therefore practically a salad,” Ava declares, rummaging through some cupboards until she finds napkins and paper plates and plasticware. She soon makes quick work of portioning up the lasagna for everyone, then grins at Jordan. “If it tastes as good as it looks and smells, your coworker is a damn genius.”

“Oh, she is,” Jordan says easily, forking up some lasagna himself. “Her specialty is desserts, but she can definitely hold her own in regular food as well.”

Thus far, he has not greeted her aside from a smile, and Rebecca feels a bit wrong-footed even as she thanks him for the food. He seems completely at ease, though, bantering with Ava and Adrianna between bites of the lasagna, blending in seamlessly with the more formal environment of the law office in a light blue button-down a few shades paler than his eyes, apron and tattoos nowhere to be seen. 

It’s Ava who breaks the silence which has settled in while they were eating. “Mm, okay, that was delicious, and if there is a God, I hope He’s listening and that the extra calories from that and the macchiato don’t land anywhere unattractive. But that aside… Hey, Jordan, you’re headed back towards campus, right?”

“Yes?”

Rebecca isn’t quite sure of why it suddenly seems as though Ava’s eyes have taken on a slightly calculating look. “It’s late. I’m about to call it a night and head on home before my husband manages to do something hideous, like burn down the house in an attempt to make dinner, or fall asleep on the couch watching football highlights without getting the sense to change out of his work clothes and then expect me to iron it all away. But if you’re going in that direction anyway… want to drop Rebecca off?”

Those clear blue eyes glance her way, and Rebecca hastens to stand up. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. Ms. Tanner is kind enough to have the Uber billed to her account.”

“It’s no trouble, Becky.” He holds out a hand, and she takes it before she can overthink the situation. “Good night, ladies.”

He doesn’t let go of her hand as they walk out the conference room, though he shortens his stride to match hers, and leads her to a navy blue sedan in the employee parking lot. “Your chariot awaits, milady,” he quips as he unlocks it and opens the passenger side door. 

“Thank you. I’m in Amity Pierson Towers, on West University.” Rebecca takes a seat, and glances at Jordan when he enters the car. “So, what brought you here tonight?”

“Blaise mentioned that you guys were working late when she went to pick up the coffee order,” he says easily. “I called Melia; she owed me a favour anyway, since I switched shifts with her the other day so that she could go out. Figured that you lovely ladies could use some sustenance, and when I got off, dropped by with it.”

The car radio is playing a bluesy ballad, and he steers the vehicle competently up the mostly-quiet streets. Rebecca breaks the silence before it has the chance to get awkward.

“So, they tell me you’re Ms Tanner’s cousin.”

“Guilty as charged.” Jordan grins, and Rebecca supposed that she could see the resemblance-- the tall, lanky good looks, that eye-catching crop of sunny blond hair. “Her mom’s my dad’s older sister. She’s quite a bit older than me-- graduated high school while I was finishing up elementary-- but we always got on pretty well. I owe her a great deal for giving me a chance, back in the day, but she’d probably brush that off if I mentioned it.”

“Blaise says that you did PR for the firm when you were still in college.”

“Blaise just has all types of stuff to say about me, doesn’t she?” Jordan says wryly as he brakes at a stop light. “I was still in undergrad at the time, probably about close to your age. Trying to get some work experience in the field, and she gave me a chance. It was when the Marriage Equality Act was passed, and since it’s a family law firm…”

Rebecca’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. She remembers something about it-- an incredibly poignant but ingenious ad campaign a few years back that practically went viral. She pulls out her phone, flips through youtube, and briefly shows him the video. “That was you?”

“Guilty as charged,” Jordan says again, this time wryly. “Don’t get me wrong. I busted my ass on the project, and I think I did a decent job. But then again, I owed it to Hayley for giving me the chance, you know? It was one of those things that could make or break me.”

“Why are you still working at Starbucks? You could get in at any PR firm in the state!” Maybe it’s the late hour, and the slight exhaustion setting in, but Rebecca stares at him, a bit wide-eyed. “I pretty much took you for just the generic friendly neighbourhood barista.”

“Hey, hey, I’m hardly in a Clark Kent/Superman scenario, Becky,” Jordan laughs lightly. “As for Starbucks, I owe it a lot, too, I’d say.”

“Oh?”

“You learn a lot, working there. Patience. Tolerance. Humour. Problem-solving. The value of hard and sometimes thankless work. How to deal with people from all walks of life. And… I’ve met and befriended a lot of people whom I wouldn’t have known, otherwise.”

“I suppose.” The car is stopped now, in front of her building, and she pauses, holding out her hand a bit awkwardly. “Well, thanks again for the food. And the ride.”

He takes her hand, but instead of shaking it, just holds it for a moment in his larger, warmer one. “It was my pleasure. And, Becky?”

“Hmm?” It must be some sign of either how tired she was, or perhaps something else that she definitely is not up to analyzing at this late hour, that she responded to that name.

“I will always be grateful to Starbucks because… if for nothing else, otherwise, I would never have met you.” He releases her hand even as she feels a totally uncharacteristic blush slam into her cheeks-- one that she hopes isn’t visible, in the dark. “Good night.”

**

October 7th, 2pm

“So, let me get this straight,” Maralynn leans her chin on her hands, her elbows on the table, and surveys Melia with a mischievous smile. “Jordan’s cousin’s law firm hired in Rebecca as an intern but she used to work for CAMMY last summer at his office. And then Jordan called you to ask for some food so he could go bring it to them after already working his whole shift here? And then he drove her home?? That is so CUTE!”

“I know, isn’t it just? But you should probably not bust his balls over it, just saying.” Melia wipes down one of the tables with a damp rag and shakes her head at the blonde. “And why do you insist on calling that poor guy that? And antagonizing him at my workplace? He looks borderline homicidal every time you’re done picking on him for no reason. I don’t get paid enough to clean blood and a dead body off this floor.”

“Well, I can’t really antagonize him anywhere else, can I? Guy like that has to be kept on his toes. Otherwise, they’re too perfect and are liable to get disgusting gigantic egos.” At Melia’s raised eyebrows, Maralynn waves both hands dismissively. “But we’re not talking about me, or Cammy. Back to Jordan and Rebecca-- who, by the way, is almost too good for our Jordan were it not for the fact that he’s our Jordan and deserves the best. I shell out forty bucks for a tube of mascara that gives me lashes like she has naturally-- life’s just not fair.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re not dating,” Melia says, moving onto the next table. “There’s probably some degree of attraction on both sides-- which is normal, considering that they’re both intelligent, likeable, attractive people.”

“But don’t you think it’d be adorable if they did date?” 

“Oh, totally. Jordan needs a girl who doesn’t simper at him like the vast collection of middle-aged frappuccino-swilling soccer moms with bad highlights who turn into giggling morons around him, that’s for sure.”

“Well, Rebecca is definitely not a simperer. I remember freshman year when we lived across the hall from each other. Sort of that flawless elegant type you generally love to hate, but a good egg all in all. And she could use an actual nice guy. Those are hard to find, believe me. Though…” Here, Maralynn pauses and beams at her friend. “How is it going with the hot bouncer?”

“His name’s Noel, and it’s going well.” Melia doesn’t elaborate, but her soft smile says it all. Maralynn can read every bit of her friend’s thoughts, clear and brilliantly shining in the other girl’s green eyes.

_I learn something new to love about him every day. It’s the way his hand fits against the small of my back and the way my face fits into the crook of his neck. It’s the way his eyes light up when I walk into a room. It’s the way he still stumbles when I put on something extra sexy for a night out. It’s the way he watches me, when he thinks I’m not looking, even when I’m just wearing a green apron and my rattiest jeans. It’s the most comforting and thrilling feeling in the world. I’ve never been so happy. I’ve never been so scared._

“Good. I’m glad.” A wistful feeling that she refuses to identify as loneliness arises in her chest, but Maralynn tamps that down with a quick and ruthless click. “Aww, just look! Everyone around me is falling in love! This is the sweetest and cutest thing, ever!”

“And what about you, missy?”

“Oh, pfft. Don’t let the reports of my glam-- which are greatly exaggerated-- fool you. About the highlight of my love life is arguing with Cammy at Starbucks at five in the morning.” As though suddenly realizing what she was saying, Maralynn giggles, but it sounds high and forced. “So, obviously, non-existent.”

“Right.” Leaving it at that, Melia finishes up the last of the tables and retreats back behind the counter. 

**

October 10th, 9pm

Nine o’clock on a weekday night is not his usual time for stopping here, Cameron thinks as he walks into the Starbucks, but it seemed as good a place as any to get a bottle of water and maybe a bite to eat after finishing up at the gym. But the last person he would have expected to see in there is standing at the counter, quite enthusiastically hugging the blond male barista who usually worked the evening shift. It’s so surprising that he almost doesn’t notice that his feisty blonde nemesis is not present. 

“Hayley?” It’s his oldest friend, all right. She pulls back from the fellow with her usual rakish grin, but her eyes are all but glowing with happiness. 

“Oh, Cameron! What are you doing here?” Hayley’s still wearing her work clothes, a sharply tailored black pinstripe suit, though the jacket is unbuttoned and the top button of her blouse is undone. “No matter! I might as well tell you, too.” 

“Tell me what? I’ll have a protein box and a bottle of water, please.” He gives his order politely to the blond barista and hands over his credit card, only to have the young man hand it right back to him. 

“On the house tonight. We’re celebrating. Tell him, Hayley.”

Instead of saying anything, Hayley simply holds up one hand. On the ring finger, where there had been nothing before, was a slim, channel-set band of aquamarines in yellow gold. There’s an irrepressible smile on her face, but as Cameron looks closely, there’s also a sheen of tears in her eyes, a sight that Cameron has certainly never seen before, and it creates almost-instant panic.

“CRAP! You’re… you’re not crying, are you? Umm, congratulations! I know you and Meara have been…”

“Happy tears, and if you mention their existence, I’ll sue you for slander and defamation, Counselor,” Hayley quips, beaming. “I actually was going to ask her, you know. Bought a ring and everything, but she beat me to the punch.”

“Congratulations, both of you.” Cameron grasps her ring-bedecked hand and gives it a firm squeeze. “I know you two will be very happy together.” 

“Oh, happy isn’t the word.” Hayley smirks. “You’ll learn something of it one day, buddy boy.” She straightens up for just a moment, and in her heels, she’s tall enough to look Cameron right in the eye. “I just came to tell my little cousin here.”

Cameron had no idea that the blond barista was his friend’s cousin, but now that he takes a closer look, he can see the resemblance. “I see. Small world.”

“Yeah, it definitely is.” The blond barista places Cameron’s water and protein box on the counter, and grins in a friendly fashion. “I’m sure she’s going to ask you to clear your schedule for the first week of March, just like she did with me.”

“Oh, is that when the wedding is going to be then?” Cameron asks. “Not a problem.”

“Yeah, destination wedding in Hawaii. Don’t forget your sunscreen and your plus-one,” Hayley grins. “It’s the same time as the mid-winter break so that Meara won’t have any classes.”

Cameron makes a mental note to clear his schedule the very next day. “I’ll be there,” he promises. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. No promises on the plus-one, though.” 

The blond barista, for some unknown reason, decides to shoot Cameron a skeptical sort of look at that bit, but Cameron ignores him. “I should leave you to your celebration.” He picks up the water and protein box, and reaches into his pocket for cash to tip the barista. 

“I’m sure there will be a get-together soon. I’ll let you know the details as soon as I can,” Hayley tells him. She’s still beaming with happiness visibly through the window even as he leaves, and he’s happy for her, really. Meara Kyne is a lovely, talented woman, a music professor whose devotion to his friend is unparalleled. Certainly, he’s never seen Hayley this incandescently happy. It was the type of relationship that made one believe in all the best parts of love.

He tamps down the momentary twinge and puts it down to physical tiredness rather than loneliness and guzzles the cold bottle of water. It’s not coffee. And this was the first time he’d been in that Starbucks without seeing… _her_. 

No big deal. 

**  
October 14th, 6pm

It is not a date. 

Certainly, Annette thinks, even she was aware of the phrase “Netflix and chill” and all the implications thereof. But, she is equally certain that phrases of that nature applied to other girls than her. Shane-- beautiful, brilliant, unapologetically subversive but unquestionably charismatic Shane-- had never so much as held her hand when they walked down the street together. He looks her in the face when they talk-- and they talk about their schoolwork, mostly-- not up and down in the typical male once-over. He also fidgets a great deal, picking at loose threads on his jeans, or constantly brushing his slightly-too-long hair out of his eyes. Certainly, she’s not the sort of girl to inspire nervous behaviour in any guys.

But it’s become almost comfortable, after the first few times. Usually, at his place, where he pores over the keyboard, emerald eyes at turns intense and faraway as his fingers work away at some silent melody, contained within the studio headphones. Once or twice at hers, where the last Sunday had found them discussing Omar Al-Khayyám over surprisingly delicious sandwiches-- prosciutto and mozzarella and pesto on focaccia. Annette would have expected Shane to deem the ancient Persian’s greatest achievement to be his work on cubic equations or analytic geometry, but Shane had surprised her by quoting the Rubáiyát instead.

_A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,_  
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou  
Beside me singing in the Wilderness—  
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow! 

He’d quoted that particular quatrain just as they’d finished eating, and grinned, and she was certain that she’d blushed. 

But it wasn’t a date then, and it’s still not a date now. They’d been quietly working for two hours: she on Cell Biology, him on his Chance and Choice math thesis, and almost by unspoken agreement, they’d migrated to the slightly scarred couch for a break, Shane restlessly flipping through the channels in search of a movie to watch.

Now, they’re about halfway through the movie Armageddon. They both have to suspend a great deal of disbelief-- oil drillers functioning as semi-competent astronauts after mere weeks’ worth of training, a catastrophic fire in oxygen-free outer space, and so on-- but it’s a surprisingly enjoyable movie, nonetheless. By the time the closing credits play, showing scenes of a wedding amidst the Aerosmith power ballad, Shane’s all but laying down with his head in her lap. His eyes are only halfway open, glimpses of green through coppery eyelashes as they look up into her face. 

“My favourite part of the movie is the soundtrack, probably. I sort of like Chantal Kreviazuk’s version of ‘Leaving on a Jet Plane’ better than the John Denver original.” He could sit up, and they could return to studying any moment now, but this is a pleasant sort of limbo, almost drowsy and peaceful. Underneath her fingers, his hair is incredibly soft and silky. “What about you?”

Annette gives an embarrassed shrug and looks down at the scarred coffee table. It’s easier than looking him in the face right now. “The dynamic between Bruce Willis’ character with his daughter and Ben Affleck’s character is interesting. The dichotomy between protective and doubtful of himself, the way he sort of loves and hates the Affleck character at the same time. It’s… interesting. I don’t know if it’s realistic, but it’s an interesting take on human behaviour and psychology in a way.”

“I suppose.” Shane seems to realize that there is more to her statement than what she’s saying, but he doesn’t push it or ask questions. Certainly, Annette has never had to deal with an overprotective father acting some sort of way around a boyfriend before. It had never mattered to her, either.

Out of nowhere, she wonders if her father-- polite, absentee, whose postcards come with a sort of meticulous clockwork regularity and whose face is blurry and nebulous in her memories-- would ever have the chance to develop an opinion about Shane.

**

October 14th, 7pm

The elevator of the building where Melia lives is somewhat temperamental, but Noel risks it that evening, a bouquet of pink roses tucked under one arm, a bottle of Pinot Noir in the other hand. He’s been at her place perhaps half-a-dozen times now, and still there’s a thrill of anticipation as he reaches the door and knocks.

Melia looks beautiful even at the crack of dawn, wearing a Starbucks apron over a long-sleeved t-shirt, but here and now, wearing a forest green dress that hugs all of her curves in the best way, she’s stunning. The apartment smells like sweet-savory honey and fresh baked bread, and he can’t resist pulling her in for a kiss even before he hands her the roses and wine. 

“You taste like apples,” he murmurs against her lush mouth before he pulls back. She has one hand tangled in the hair at the back of his neck and the other at his shoulder, and smiles up into his face. 

“Apples are one of the components for one of the courses for tonight’s dinner,” she tells him impishly before she steps back. “Which is almost ready, by the way. Just enough time for me to put these flowers in water, though-- you know that you didn’t have to, of course.”

“I know, but I wanted to.” He watches as she buries her face in the blooms for a moment, then disappears into the kitchen to find a vase. The flowers are then placed on the table next to a pair of slim white candles. He hands her the wine as well, and she, in characteristic Melia fashion, hands him a corkscrew and two glasses.

“For tonight’s dinner we will be having baked Camembert with fig and pistachio compote, minestrone soup with cheese tortellini, five-spice pork tenderloin topped with baked apples, sweet potato wedges with honey butter, and a pumpkin pecan cheesecake.” She gives him a grin over her shoulder as she sprinkles finely chopped parsley on top of the dish she’s plating up. “You made a good choice with the wine. It’ll go well with the food.”

“I somehow feel as though I should be paying large amounts of money for a meal like this, in a fancy restaurant somewhere,” Noel muses as she brings all the food to the table. He hands her the glass of wine, clinks his own against it. 

“And someday, God willing, you and everyone else will be. What are we cheers-ing to?”

“To you. To everything you are, and everything you do,” he answers, sampling a bite of the appetizer. “This is freaking delicious, by the way. I’m sure you already know that, but I just wanted to reiterate.”

She smiles across the table, features soft and lovely in the candlelight, and clinks her glass against his again. “No. Let’s cheers to us.”

“Okay.”

**

October 16th, 5pm

Rebecca Hewitt walks into the somewhat crowded cafe pauses at the door, raising her chin as though to remind herself that many people went there to study. Nothing wrong with the practice in principle even if the environs was a bit more lively and distracting than her norm. The fact that a certain blond barista was manning the counter had little to do with her decision, either. He shoots her one of those quick grins and a wave when he sees her, then turns back to the middle-aged woman with a virulently blonde bob and querulous expression who’s standing at the register.

“I understand that it was marketed as a seasonal drink,” the woman’s voice instantly grates on Rebecca’s nerves the moment she opens her mouth-- that particular mix of whiny and supercilious peculiar to an unfortunately-familiar breed of first-world-problem-having Ladies Who Lunch. “But considering the popularity, why doesn’t Starbucks make it a permanent item? I can’t believe they’re just willing to lose out money and good customers like myself who will stop frequenting their stores. The customer is always right, you know.”

Jordan doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash, though behind the lady’s back, Rebecca scoffs and rolls her eyes. His voice is the epitome of sympathy when he responds. 

“Oh, I totally understand where you’re coming from, Ms. Bartleby. I’m still sad that they discontinued Dunkaroos, and I’m pretty sure the last time I had them I was about three feet tall. But, no matter. I can make a reasonable facsimile to that particular frappuccino that you like so much. Just for you.” Here, Jordan winks, and Rebecca glares at nobody in particular when the difficult customer titters. “You better not tell anyone, though, because then I’d have to make them all the time, for everybody.”

“Mm-hmm. Remember, coconut milk only, and four Splendas, and I’m allergic to soy so I’m going to need you to wash your hands and any cups and blenders.”

“Got it.” Jordan does so, and after a few moments of puttering around, presents the lady with a lurid, bubblegum-pink concoction in an oversized cup. “And here you go, Ms. Bartleby. Just for you.”

She takes it, takes a sip through comically pursed lips, and gives Jordan a small and begrudging nod. “It’s tolerable, I suppose. You’re sure it contains absolutely no soy?”

“None whatsoever,” Jordan says easily. “Now you have a good afternoon, ma’am.”

Ms. Bartleby of the soy allergy and cheap box hair dye highlights drops a stingy handful of pennies into the tip jar and sails away, grabbing a comical amount of napkins from the condiment stand on her way out the door, and Rebecca steps up to the counter, seething. 

“What a complete and utter bitch. Did she really just tip you… _11 cents? Really? For all that?_ ”

He gives her a wry smile and a one-armed shrug. “Well. She’s not over the fact that the drink she wanted to order was limited time only, nevermind the fact that it’s been like two years since it was actually available, even without her modifications. Melia hates her guts and has to bite her tongue every time she’s in here, but I think I’m growing on her. Slightly. That’s a whole nickel more than she tipped me the last time we had this run-around.”

“Oh God.” Rebecca grimaces. “I would never survive working here. I would’ve blended a whole box of tofu into her damn drink first thing before adding anything else, and because I’m pre-Law, I know exactly what type of legal catastrophe would then ensue, but I think I’d do it anyway.”

Jordan throw his head back and laughs, revealing a rather perfect Adam’s apple even as he steps back to make her the usual green tea. “I didn’t know you were so bloodthirsty, Becky.”

“I’m not. Not usually. Her type just irritates the everlasting crap out of me.” Restlessly, she paces the length of the counter, back and forth, as he makes her order. “My dad’s a lawyer. And while I’m fairly sure he’s not ACTUALLY evil, his particular breed of lawyer does tend to feature heavily as the conniving villain figure in a number of John Grisham novels. Which means that a bunch of him and his colleagues’ associates, family, trophy wives and the like are exactly the type of entitled hag as your Ms. Bartleby. One of them turned up at a Christmas party last year wearing matching Dior outfits with her Pomeranian, spilled her champagne on my grandfather’s tea ceremony mat that he’d brought from Japan, then had the nerve to tell me she’d order one exactly like it off Amazon Prime to replace it, not to fret.”

“Yeesh.” Jordan whistles lightly between his teeth, then hands her her tea. Rebecca takes it quickly, then scoots away from the counter to find a table, a bit embarrassed at the amount of unsolicited personal drama that she’d shared in that brief transaction. The man was insidious. Insidiously nice. Insidiously good-looking and easy to talk to. 

Pulling out some of the research for the custody case at Hayley Tanner’s law firm, she immerses herself in its harrowing details, which serves roughly the same purpose as a bucket of ice water dumped over her head to clear it of any unwanted thoughts or distractions, focusing her on the work at hand. Soon, she’s too lost in heartbreaking school reports to think too much about Jordan, until he sets down a fresh cup of tea by her elbow, then unapologetically takes a seat across from her.

Startled violet eyes look up into blue. “Don’t you have to work?”

“I’m on break. But I can leave if you’d like.” He has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and her eyes, quite naturally, shift to the tattoos. It’s easier to focus on them than on his gaze, so squarely settled upon her. “Please don’t make me leave,” he adds teasingly.

“You don’t have to leave,” she mumbles, then hurries to add, “I mean, you can sit where you want. I’m not going to stop you.”

“That’s quite magnanimous of you,” he quips. Then, in a move that would have seemed  calculated and slightly provoking coming from anyone else, he slips a piece of her hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear in a quick motion with warm fingers. “I feel like I’m learning more and more about you every time we meet. Beyond the scintillating discussions about this mediocre tea, of course.” Rebecca’s head shoots up at the words, at the almost-flirtatious gesture, but there’s nothing but a warm smile across his face. “I like it. You are a singularly fascinating woman.”

“Well, I don’t really know anything about you.” The reply comes out a bit more abrupt than she’d meant it to, and she quickly softens her voice. “What’s with all the tattoos?”

Jordan leans forward, his toned, colourful arms coming closer into her view. On the left wrist is an electric guitar. There’s also a dense forest of trees, a city skyline, the Philadelphia Liberty Bell, a craggy rock beach with a stark white lighthouse. It should all clash, somehow, but the different scenes sort of blend together into a strangely harmonious whole. 

“Dad was in the Navy, mom’s a wedding photographer. To say we traveled a lot would be an understatement.” His right arm-- the Golden Gate Bridge, snowy white-tipped mountains intertwined with yellow fields of wheat, the blue-green face of Lady Liberty half-concealed by his shirt-sleeve-- picks up a piece of scrap paper and one of her pens from the table. He starts to draw something on the paper in quick, dexterous strokes, then turns it to face her, and Rebecca is more than a little startled to see a simple but deft sketch of her own face. “So, when I was eighteen, I sort of decided to memorialise all the different places I’d seen. It’s sort of an ongoing project-- I consider myself to have a decently high pain tolerance, but no point in taking myself completely out the game all at once, you know?-- so I’ve sort of added a bit each year. I’m sure it will probably be Hawaii next, for Hayley’s wedding.” He’s still sketching, adding to the quick pen-portrait as he speaks, and the picture of her now wears a lei. Rebecca doesn’t know precisely what to say-- whether to ask more questions, which would be nosy, or scold him for drawing her, which would be rude-- but he takes the guesswork out of it for her. “I’m only marginally decent at drawing, or else this could play out completely differently. Just think-- instead of working here, I could be at a tattoo parlor somewhere drawing skulls and crossbones and barbed wire on Hell’s Angels types.” He leans back again, and when Rebecca finally meets his eyes, he’s smiling at her with all the warmth of hot tea on a chilly day. “I think I made the right choice, after all.”

**

October 20th, 12am

“It’s pretty late for you to be out, isn’t it?” Noel doesn’t bother to check her ID at the door and merely gives Annette a friendly smile and wave as she approaches the door of Coda. He’s wearing all black and would look rather grim and unapproachable were it not for the smile, so Annette is glad, all in all, that she’s spared the scary bouncer treatment and let straight in. But then again, considering how often he’s over at her apartment (not to mention vice versa), they’re undoubtedly past that point by now.

“Shane told me that I should drop by, ‘one of these days’.” Annette tells him as she prepares to check her coat at the door. 

“Fair enough. We’re pretty busy tonight, so you might not get to talk to him, but a nice crowd means good tips so he can’t complain too much. There’s a full-on bachelorette party in here-- I’m sure you’ll spot them easily enough. I’ll check on you later.”

Annette murmurs a few words of thanks to Noel and walks in slowly. She’d dressed up for the occasion-- slightly. The skirt is sensible knee-length navy blue and the blouse isn’t particularly revealing, but it is still a step up from her usual sensible sweaters-and-slacks look, and she’d actually taken the time to put on some face powder and eyeshadow. She spots the bachelorette party easily enough indeed-- and compared to them-- every last one wearing a bright pink sash and sparkly stiletto heels-- she’s underdressed, indeed.

There’s a sizable group of the bachelorette group surrounding the piano, and in their varying stages of inebriation, they’re belting out some pop song at the top of their lungs, all but drowning out the piano until Annette walks closer. She’s less than five feet away before she can see Shane at all, his dark-gold head bent over the keys, a thinly-veiled look of irritation on his face as a woman in a coral-pink dress lurches against the side of the piano and almost spills her cocktail. 

“PLAY IT AGAIN!” The bride-to-be, wearing a tiara and the most elaborate sash of all, orders in an imperious voice. “This time EVERYONE SHUSH! We’re all too drunk to sing this! Just LISTEN!”

The group lets out a cacophony of giggles at her command, but more or less fall silent. Shane looks up, and for a moment, his annoyed expression morphs to surprise upon seeing her, then he gives her a strangely diffident, fleeting smile before he begins the song again. 

Annette belatedly recognizes the song as John Legend’s “All Of Me”, and she guesses that it must be the bride-to-be’s wedding song, because she’s staring off into space, swaying with an invisible groom, a slightly goofy smile on her face. 

It’s a melancholy selection, she thinks, mellow in its minor key, but played this way, now sans the off-key chorus of drunk girls, it sounds sweet and soft and sad, not unlike the Liszt Liebestraum he’d played for her at his apartment. A dream of unrequited love, she recalls. 

He glances up, eyes brilliantly green and intense as they meet hers, even as his fingers quietly play the last few chords, and for a moment, she all but forgets the gaggle of girls around them.

**

October 22nd, 10pm

It should be a no-brainer home-run of a birthday date. 

Thai food-- one of her favourites. 

Bubble tea-- another of her favourites.

A cute boy from her Digital Media class-- … And, here’s where reality does not live up to the imagination. 

Maralynn stomps into Starbucks in a whirl of sulk and sunshine-yellow hair, and barely manages to give Jordan a wave. It’s a Monday night and the cafe is all but deserted at this hour, but she foregoes her usual PSL and instead, in a doleful voice, asks for a hot chocolate extra whipped cream. 

“Bad night?” Jordan brings out her drink and takes a seat across from her at the table, his eyes kind and just sympathetic enough that she feels vindicated but not pitied. “It’s dead in here right now and I probably have a good hour to kill before the true night owls come out. Tell me all about it.”

Maralynn huffs out a breath and a few strands of blonde hair blow sideways out of her face. “I guess I had it coming,” she tells him petulantly. “I mean, who names their son ‘Ace’ for real? That’s a totally unhealthy level of hipster, right? He’s gotta have some type of mental and psychological baggage just from that.”

Jordan waits patiently, accustomed to her circuitous thought patterns. Maralynn licks whipped cream off her lip and sighs. “It’s my birthday, you see.”

“Oh? Happy birthday! Even less reason for the long face, I would say?”

“You would think so, right?” Maralynn chugs the rest of the hot chocolate too quickly to really enjoy it, but Jordan suspects that right at that moment, taste and temperature are the least of her concerns. “A boy from one of my classes has been sort of flirting with me. He friended me on Facebook at the start of the school year and found out it was my birthday and asked me out to dinner. And, he’s not a bad-looking guy, or creepy or whatever. So I met him at Kaffir, because who doesn’t like Thai food, right? Especially Thai food that’s good and reasonably priced. I didn’t want to seem like a mooch or a gold-digger.”

“Mm-hmm. Go on.”

“First, he shows up fifteen minutes late. I was sitting there like an idiot drinking water waiting for him. And then he shows up wearing a band t-shirt and ripped jeans but has the nerve to tell me he thought I’d ‘be dressed in something hotter and fancier’, considering I’m a ‘fashion frou-frou type of girl’. His words. Then we go to order and he makes fun of the waiter’s accent! The guy spoke perfectly comprehensible English-- just with an accent! I get a bubble tea and a tofu red curry and he then tells me some bullshit ‘research’ he read that soy products cause hormonal imbalances because they contain estrogen or some shit but hey, ‘maybe it will all go to your boobs!’. Of course, now he’s leering like a creepy creep. He orders hot Pad Thai and then says it’s too hot and spends the rest of the time guzzling water, and asks the waiter for a refund even though it is CLEARLY MARKED ON THE MENU that you order spicy at your own risk because, duh, THAI FOOD. And when the waiter says no, he stiffs the guy on the tip! I left a twenty on the table behind his back because really? Who DOES that?”

“Hipster fuckboys named Ace, apparently,” Jordan says dryly, then reaches over and gives Maralynn a pat on the shoulder. “Let that be a lesson to you, young grasshopper. Only date guys with normal names.”

“I guess,” Maralynn scowls at the almost-empty cup of hot chocolate in her hands. “It’s like 90% of the guys I know are some variation of whiny, grabby, commitment-phobic asshat, though. I’m pretty sure the absolute only good most of them see in me is the bragging rights.” She manages a weak smile at Jordan’s frown. “Present company excluded, of course. If only you weren’t like the big brother I never had, and all that jazz.”

“I know, I know,” Jordan gets up and goes behind the counter, then returns with a cake pop, which he hands her with a flourish. “I’m sorry your birthday date sucked.”

“I should just give up on dating guys from my classes, I think,” Maralynn grimaces, then bites the cake pop viciously off the stick. “Most of them start off as smooth talkers, then turn out to be complete duds. Maybe I should go for someone who can’t stand me instead of someone who wants to get in my pants.”

“You forget the possibility of someone who can’t stand you yet still wants in your pants,” Jordan quips, then stands up, gives her a brotherly squeeze of the shoulders. “In all seriousness, though, I wouldn’t worry if I were you. Some guy out there is definitely smart enough to see through the cute shoes and extremely elaborate makeup and figure out what a great girl you really are. And if he doesn’t come along right away, you got enough going for you that-- well, who needs to waste time with the pale imitation, right?” He refills her hot chocolate, then smiles down at her. “Next year today, don’t go on a birthday date unless you’re legit crazy about the guy and vice versa. If you don’t have a guy, just celebrate with your friends. Get Lia to make you some super experimental and super delicious cake. Splurge on something completely unnecessary.”

“Got it, boss. Sephora, here I come.” Maralynn raises her newly filled cup in a mock-toast. “Thanks for listening to me bitch.”

“Ever your devoted servant, milady.”

**

October 27th, 12am

Cristal is not his type of establishment by any stretch of the imagination, a grim-faced Cameron Hayes thinks as he accepts a mediocre Sazerac from a busty redhead in some sort of goth fantasy get-up involving shiny black PVC and fishnets. Sure, it’s apparently the hottest nightclub in town these days, with the cover to match, but he rather thought the rhinestones-and-mirrors motif was overdone. But it was the venue for the engagement party for Hayley Tanner-- one of his oldest friends from law school-- and he’d promised to make an appearance. 

Hayley seemed happy enough, cutting a sharp and dapper figure on the dance floor in an electric blue slim-cut suit that he himself would never dream of wearing, canoodling with a curvaceous siren in a frothy peacock-green dress. They did make a rather striking couple, he supposed, but him making an appearance at the party certainly didn’t require him doing any such thing as grinding against sloppy drunk females on the spangly dance floor under the flashy lights.

A flash of bright gold catches his eye, passing through his peripheral vision, and he blinks, then turns his head, then almost spills his drink in shock. It’s none other than the blonde from Starbucks-- Maralynn-- whose name evoked images of laughing yet mysterious movie stars and yet not quite. She’s all dolled up in some cocktail dress version of a Grecian goddess gown in bright gold, all but glowing under the damned lights, and of course this would be the type of place she’d be, on a Friday night, holding a tiny impractical sequined clutch in one hand and an equally sparkly phone in the other. Cameron watches as she cuts a swath through the crowd on the dance floor, flitting from one eager male to the next without getting too close and personal with anyone, and then forces himself to set down the drink before he spills it for real. It definitely contains Pernod rather than real absinthe and far too much sugar, but there’s no point in wasting it for the astronomical price it had been.

Then his eyes sharpen. Even hours later, he wouldn’t be quite sure how he’d noticed it-- the flash of a phone camera amidst the strobes and disco ball and fiber optics and fuck-all-knows-what-else. He peers closer, and it happens again, and before he quite realizes what he’s doing, he abandons the overpriced drink altogether and cuts a beeline through the dancing horde, supremely unconcerned about the indignant looks when his elbows none-too-gently knock a few people out of his way. The douchey dude-bro with the cell phone out is wearing an actual fedora, along with what seems to be a good gallon of Axe body spray, when Cameron stops in front of him.

“Does the lady want you to be taking pictures of her?” Cameron is using his courtroom voice, and out of the corner of his eye, he notices a few dancers backing away. Maralynn’s head snaps up at the mention of ‘taking pictures’ and she gasps.

“Hey, are you actually taking pictures of me, you creep?!”

“Yeah, he was. But he’s not about to continue. Move along.”

Dude-bro moves back a foot or two, and Maralynn turns to say something to him, but before he can even process her words, he catches the flash of another picture out of his peripheral vision. Now, Cameron doesn’t even bother turning all the way towards the fedora-wearing asshole. Instead, he goes straight for the phone, which a second later ends up in pieces under countless pairs of shoes on the dance floor.

“WHAT THE FUCK, BRO?? THAT’S A NEW FUCKING iPHONE 8 AND THAT’S MARALYNN FUCKING AVERY! SHE’S LIKE YOUTUBE-FAMOUS!”

“And that’s a now-broken new iPhone 8 and that’s also a woman who doesn’t need YOU to be taking pictures of her like a stalker. You must be even dumber than you look if you want your ass in a sling over privacy law violations.” Cameron glares down his nose at fedora guy. “Hope you have insurance on that thing. Make sure to tell the Apple store to wipe your entire cloud first.”

Maralynn’s yelp is quiet amidst the din of the club music, but it clues him in to the fist fedora guy directs towards his face. Cameron ducks, then kicks out, hitting the other man in the kneecap with perfect precision. Now, he spots security lumbering in their general direction, and sighs deeply. “We need to go.”

If Maralynn is surprised by his choice of pronoun, she says nothing. Instead, she grabs his hand and dashes, surprisingly fast considering the glittery ice pick heels, towards the exits. The air outside is chilly, and Cameron eyes her glitzy dress askance. “You probably have a coat checked in there, don’t you?”

“Not a big deal,” she smiles, even as she rubs her hands up and down her bare arms. “I’m not about to go back in there for it just now. I can go get it tomorrow. This isn’t quite how I envisioned the night going, but hey, it’s always an adventure! I was supposed to review the club-- it’s got all sorts of Halloween drink specials and stuff-- but all I managed to get was one lousy hour in.”

Cameron almost feels bad for ruining her night now. Almost. Awkwardly, he sheds his (staid and charcoal grey, definitely not electric blue) suit jacket and drapes it over her shoulders. “There.”

“Aww, Cammy, you don’t have to do that.” The cheeky tone belies the almost diffident look in her eyes, but before he can wonder about that, she takes out her phone and snaps a selfie, apparently uncaring that she looks patently ridiculous wearing a suit jacket about ten sizes too large over her very shiny dress. A moment later, she turns her phone screen to show him. The picture is now enhanced with some sort of hearts-and-flowers-bedecked filter, and he hides an involuntary chuckle behind a cough. 

“You look ridiculous.”

“I look fantastic. You look better and less scary without the jacket, so I might keep this. Can I?”

Cameron rolls his eyes. Half of the stuff she says to him should just not be dignified with a response. “So, what do you usually do after you leave these godforsaken places?”

Maralynn beams and loops her hand over his arm. “Why, go to Starbucks, of course! Free WiFi and delicious nutritious lattes so that I can put together what to say for my review! So, hey, did you drive? Can we go? I’ll buy you some of that nasty tar-water Americano stuff you like so much!”

**

October 27th, 1am

It’s barely a fifteen-minute drive from the club to the Starbucks where, oddly, all of this began. There’s a minimal amount of traffic as Cameron steers the silver Audi up one street and down another, not quite sure whether or not he should be surprised as his passenger belts along enthusiastically with the radio, matching The Temptations word for word and tone for tone as she sings “My Girl” at the top of her lungs. Her window is rolled down, her hair fluttering in the breeze, and she just manages to remember to roll it back up as he puts the car in park.

It’s a few hours earlier than they usually meet at Starbucks-- but Maralynn glides up to the counter and greets the barista on duty (someone whom Cameron did not recognize) with a friendly smile and a stream of chatter. She orders, in her words, a “delicious nutritious Venti PSL extra whip and two pumps of caramel sauce, and the Americano stuff that Cammy likes”. If the barista finds anything about her request amusing, she doesn’t say so. Moments later, Maralynn brings both their drinks to their table, where his suit jacket is now draped over the back of her chair, and beams at him with enough megawatt power to make him blink.

“I haven’t thanked you for the assist yet, have I? So, thanks!” She takes a sip of her sugary concoction and sighs softly. “It doesn’t happen too often. Guys taking unwanted pictures of me, I mean. But still, no one’s intervened before. I guess they figure since I put myself out there anyway, it’s what I deserve.”

“You… put yourself out there?” Cameron isn’t quite sure what she means by that, but it matters very little to him. “No matter. While a dance club is a semi-public place, almost all of them forbid or at least regulate photography. Furthermore, it’s a violation of privacy laws to take and post pictures of you without your permission. Not to mention, it’s a creepy and disgusting thing to do, and he deserved more than just a broken phone.”

“I have a youtube channel and a decent following on instagram. Mostly makeup tutorials and the art of vintage shopping,” Maralynn shoots him a self-deprecating smile. “Also reviews of various places and things and opinion pieces. You know, typical shallow millennial doing shallow millennial things, buying avocado toast instead of a house, and so on. But it puts me through school, so there you have it.”

“I see.” It’s not quite unexpected, but the self-deprecation is. Cameron cocks his head to the side. In the softer, dimmer light of Starbucks, she looks more vulnerable, the hard glittery shine mellowed to a shimmer. “Do you expect me to find fault with that, or something?”

“I mean, hard to say. I don’t know enough about you to tell. So why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself, Cammy? Aside from the fact that your taste in coffee is totally gross.” She winks, golden eyelashes sweeping over a smooth cheek for a moment. “You don’t go to school here, I know that much.”

“No. I’m a prosecutor for white collar crime for the State Attorney’s office.” Now it’s Cameron’s turn for a self-deprecating smile as he takes a sip of his cooling coffee. “I didn’t go to school here, no, but my office isn’t far.”

“Ah, so that’s why you come here for your coffee! It makes sense. The downtown one isn’t 24 hours, and by the time it opens it’s probably super crowded.” She takes another sip of her latte, pink lipstick prints smudging on the white plastic cover, and he doesn’t tell her that he’d only come that first time-- that first time that he’d met her here, on Labor Day, because he’d been out of coffee at his apartment. As for the subsequent times… Well, he supposed that the early-morning banter was one way to keep him on his toes, so he wouldn’t be slow-witted and complacent when it came time for court. Or certainly, it would be the best way to look at it. 

He changes the subject, though, turning it back onto her. “So, you review clubs such as Cristal, for your youtube channel?”

“Sometimes. They gave me an invite for that purpose, so it was nice not to have to pay cover. It’s a nice place, even if some of the clientele leave a bit to be desired, hmm? Although, all in all, I sort of prefer places that aren’t as popular and trendy. Everyone’s gonna want to get into Cristal, anyway. What difference does my one little review do, you know? But hey, like I said earlier, it pays the bills. And Christmas IS just around the corner. Lots of friends, lots of presents, you know how it goes.”

Cameron buys the exact same number of presents every year, and they can be counted on the fingers of both hands. His parents and younger sister, Hayley (though now probably Hayley and her fiancee Meara), his indispensable front desk receptionist, the Secret Santa gift for the office Christmas party, and the cleaning lady who went to his apartment twice a week. Almost all of the presents were ordered online in one fell swoop, aside from the bottle of single-malt Scotch he’d always bring his father. He has a feeling that Maralynn is the type to buy far too many presents, impulsively, for far too many people, many of whom would take her for granted, and the idea irks him, somehow. “Well. I’m sorry I cut your evening short at the club. I hope you still got enough to do your review.” The words come out a bit more abruptly than he intends, but if she takes notice, she doesn’t mention it. Still, he feels wrong-footed and unsure, and it’s not a feeling which he’s accustomed to-- except around her, more and more. “Do you live close? Maybe I should get you home.”

“Only if you play some more bangers.” 

She belts along with Aretha Franklin this time, inexplicably energetic despite the hour and the company, and when he pulls into the parking lot of her building, she carefully rolls up the window, then gives him a soft smile. 

“Good night, Cammy. And don’t worry-- I know exactly what to do for my review.”

He watches as she disappears into the building, looking unnaturally fetching for a girl wearing a dark grey suit jacket over a dress, holding her shoes by their straps. Fifteen minutes later, he arrives at his own place, washes off confusion and everything else in a long, cold shower, and forces himself to go to sleep at some hour close to dawn. 

It’s human curiosity which drives him to google her name the next day, he tells himself. 

The latest upload on her youtube channel-- already 5k+views, despite being up for less than 24 hours-- is entitled “Chivalry Isn’t Dead”. Curled up on a couch cuddling a fluffy white cat, still clad in the gold dress and the grey suit jacket, Maralynn expounds upon her experience at the club with the unwanted photographer, and Cameron is pleasantly surprised to hear her cite state law to back up her points, indicating that she’d actually done a bit of research before making the video. She doesn’t name him in it, but briefly tells her viewers that “a friend who’s an actual gentleman” had helped her out, sassily adding on, at the end of her tale, “And any ‘friendzoned nice guys’ aka fuckboys who watch this, especially if you see this after a phone repair at the Apple store, please make a big, fat note for future reference. In sharpie. Be a gentleman. Open a door once in a while and look a girl in the eye when talking to her. Have a real job that you got through your own merits. Be a listener and not just a talker, because, honestly, I’ll find you more interesting. Guys who can do all that can get it a lot easier than guys who can’t. Just so you know.”

She signs off her trademark wink, and leaves Cameron to wonder, rather uncomfortably, exactly what she means by her last statement.

**

October 28th, 4pm

The message on her Facebook had been cryptic, to say the least.

_Help? Please? I need to get a hold of your old boss. Meet @ Sbux 4pm?_

Considering that Cameron Hayes has undoubtedly made his share of enemies in his career as a prosecutor, Rebecca would have been a bit more wary of meeting someone in regards to him were it not for the identity of the person sending that DM. She didn’t know Maralynn Avery all that well although they’d shared the same dorm building a few years back, but the girl had never been anything less than cordial and friendly in that effortless way of popular, pretty blondes whose genuine good nature kept one from hating them altogether for their almost irksome bubbliness. The real question remained, of course, what in the world Maralynn needed to get a hold of Cameron for.

The blonde is already there when Rebecca arrives, chattering with a brunette female barista who is decidedly not Jordan, but beams a smile towards Rebecca when the latter walks in. “Hey, gorgeous. Thanks for meeting me. Lia says you like green tea so that’s what I got for you.”

“Not a problem, and thank you.” Rebecca accepts the tea from Maralynn and finds a table while the blonde waits for her own drink to be finished. 

Maralynn looks like something out of a cute ad for a vintage boutique, wearing a retro swing dress with white and buttercup-yellow checks that should have looked tacky with its big white collar, but it’s charming on her. “So I bet you wonder why you’re here.”

“A little bit, yeah,” Rebecca chuckles. “I come here often enough, but we don’t really run into each other much these days.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m hopelessly shallow. We don’t run too much in the same circles.”

“I wouldn’t say you’re hopelessly shallow, but I’m sure you didn’t ask me to meet you to talk about that. What’s the story with you and Mr. Hayes?”

Maralynn giggles, as is expected, but it’s the look in her eyes which belies the quick, careless laugh. A faint, luminous glow. Soft, slightly vulnerable. Rebecca raises an eyebrow, but Maralynn answers before she could say anything else.

“Well, I met him here, believe it or not, one morning. Early, super early. Or super late. Whatever. I made his acquaintance and he made fun of my coffee selection and we had a few words.”

Whatever concoction was in her cup was practically emanating sugar and cinnamon fumes. Rebecca takes a sip of her plain green tea and nods, letting the other girl continue. 

“So it sort of became a thing. Whenever I happened to be in here super late, and he’d be in here super early. We just sort of started bantering back and forth and such. By which, of course, I mean that I’d say witty things to him that he’d basically ignore while rolling his eyes. And this was fine. You can’t let a man that good-looking and successful just… bask in his own ego, all the time.”

Rebecca almost defended her former boss-- whose rather grim job description and no-nonsense countenance hid a quietly thoughtful gentlemanly personality, but the ‘good-looking’ moniker had her raising both eyebrows in earnest. “All right. But none of this warrants actually getting a hold of him.”

“Right. I know,” Maralynn sighs. “I was at Cristal last night. A club.”

And then all of the pieces fall into place. “Ah, yes. My current boss just got engaged, and the party was there. Mr. Hayes is good friends with Ms. Tanner. I was there briefly at the club, but left quite early. I didn’t see you there.”

“Nah, I got there a bit later, and the party was probably already in full swing. Anyway, I was there to do a review and stuff, but long story short, some asshat decides to take pictures of me on the dance floor with his phone without asking me first, and Cammy puts a real quick stop to that whole thing. REAL quick.”

“Yeah, he would,” Rebecca muses aloud. “He’s a prosecutor, for one, and takes privacy laws pretty seriously. But that aside, that’s just such a sleazy, creepy thing to do. He hates seeing that sort of thing. Hates it.”

“Oh?” If the glow in the blonde’s eyes hadn’t clued her in, the way she leans forward, fascinated by any new information on the subject in question, would have clinched it for sure. Rebecca wonders exactly how Maralynn intended to broach the subject with her former boss, then turns back to the question at hand.

“Last summer, there was another intern at the State Attorney’s office along with me. Academically smart but a complete jerk. Chauvinistic prick. You know the type-- thinks he’s God’s gift to women, thinks that drunk girls are just asking for it. Makes fun of girls who wear makeup for being vain and high maintenance, then posts memes on social media of ‘bitches who will never get some’ because they don’t try hard enough. Oh, Mr. Hayes couldn’t stand the kid. But firing someone like that would only make them feel justified and like a victim.” 

“So what did he do?” A thin gold bangle jingles against the tabletop as Maralynn leans forward, chin in hands. 

“Sent him off to assist the prosecutor for sex crimes. A week into research and witness statements for a rape case, and he was singing a different tune.” Rebecca sets down her cup, smiles faintly. “I’m fairly sure the guy’s still a jerk. One can’t ask for miracles. But he’s at least a smarter, more discreet jerk now, probably. However, this, too, has nothing to do with-- why do you need to get a hold of him, anyway?”

“Well, like I was saying, I went to Cristal. Cammy helped me out with that guy who was being creepy and taking pictures. And then the guy decided to try to hit him, and we rushed out of there before the situation could get any worse, you know? Well, long story short, I left my coat in the coat check, so Cammy sort of bundled me up in his suit jacket. I went up there and got my coat yesterday, but now I have to give him his jacket back, and while I can just camp out here in Starbucks every morning and hope that he shows up, that’d be sort of pathetic. And creepy.” Maralynn sighs gustily and blows silky, shiny blonde hair out of her eyes. “He already thinks of me as some kind of irritating ditz. No point in being pathetic and creepy on top of that.”

Rebecca wonders why, exactly, it would matter to Maralynn what some guy she really barely knew thought of her, then decides to leave it alone. “Well, you could always drop by his office, downtown. It’s not exactly difficult to find, being that it’s in the government building and all.”

“Would they, like, let me in? I’m not exactly a criminal! Or a witness! Or a cop!”

Rebecca can’t quite hold back the chuckle at the other girl’s antics. “It’s okay. This is real life, not Law and Order SVU. He’s not always in there because of court and the like, but the receptionist’s a nice lady. Her name is Robin. You can tell her I said hi.”

“Will do! Hey,” Maralynn brightens. “Does she like coffee?”

**

October 29th, 5pm

“The fact that many people consider these types of transgressions as ‘victimless crimes’ is a travesty.” Cameron Hayes rarely raises his voice during the opening statements, and now is no exception. His voice, however, has a low, stark undercurrent to emphasize the words’ impact. “Sure. Nobody died. Nobody was injured. Mrs. Sanchez is seated here, in front of you, in perfect health.” 

He holds his hand out towards the diminutive elderly woman seated at the plaintiffs’ table, her iron-gray hair in a simple braid, wearing a sensible sweater set and orthopedic shoes. “But for all that, she is still Mr. Chase’s victim.” 

Cameron turns to face the jury, staring each and every face down before turning, slowly, back to his plaintiff. “Mrs. Sanchez could be anyone’s mother here. Anyone’s grandmother. Someone who makes an honest living so that her kids could have a better life. Do you know what she told me, when I first made her acquaintance? It wasn’t that she got scammed out of thousands of dollars. It wasn’t that this man deserves-- as he does-- to go to jail for what he did. No, she told me that maybe there was hope, after all. Her grandson, Charlie, is in his junior year of high school and his soccer team just made All-State. If she sold off her jewelry, her antiques, and could just manage to get him through another year, he had a good chance at an athletic scholarship. No matter what she had to do, she’d see to it that Charlie could go off to college.”

Now he glances at the defendant’s table, and his eyes are colder than chips of ice. “Mr. Chase knew, too, about Charlie. Knew that Charlie was the apple of his grandmother’s eye. Mr. Chase knows, damn well, that it’s almost impossible to raise a child on a librarian’s salary and a disability check in a household of four people, all of whom still have to eat, stay warm, stay clothed, keep a roof over their heads. Mr. Chase only cares about one person-- himself. And all he sees, when he looks at people like Dora Sanchez, is dollar signs. ‘How much can I get her for? How easy will it be?’ Those are the questions on Mr. Chase’s mind. Not once did it occur to him that this was wrong. That Dora Sanchez deserves to have her hard-earned money, or that Charlie deserves a future. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I will show to you, through the course of this trial, just how pernicious, how completely remorseless and soulless this man is, and that in order to protect the rest of the good people of this state from the same type of monetary predation as practiced by the defendant, we need him far, far away from anyone whom he might harm and victimize in the name of a profit margin.”

By the time court has recessed for the day, Cameron has several missed calls and texts on his cell phone, but the one which has him scratching his head in immediate consternation comes from the very innocuous source of his front desk receptionist. 

“ _U have a visitor. Hot date 2nite???? She brought food and Starbucks so we’re now BFFs._ ”

**

October 29th, 5:30pm

“State Attorney’s Office, this is Robin. How may I direct your call?” 

“I’m downstairs. What do you mean hot date tonight, BFFs? What’s going on?” 

The faint sound of feminine giggles echoes in his ear, and when Robin speaks again, Cameron can all but hear the smirk in her voice. 

“You have a visitor, boss. I didn’t know you were friends with Maralynn Avery! I totally love her Instagram. You’ve been holding out on me.” 

“I… it’s complicated.” 

“I think it’s cute! She told me all about how you two met at the coffee shop and then how you helped her out the other night. Did you really just throw some guy’s iPhone 8? That costs, like, six of your flip phones.”

“I don’t have a flip phone.”

“You have like, a 2nd generation LG. That’s basically a flip phone. No wonder you don’t know who she is. Anyway, see you in a bit.” More giggles, then the phone is hung up with a click. 

Cameron makes the trek up the stairs and down the hall to his office with more than a little trepidation, and opens the door to see Maralynn seated cozily in one of the chairs, wearing an appropriately autumnal cable-knit sweater the golden-brown colour of falling oak leaves over skinny jeans and suede boots. In front of her, on the coffee table, is a cup holder of the Starbucks variety and what appears to be a plastic bag containing takeout containers.  

Maralynn stands up to greet him, a beaming smile on her face as she holds out what appears to be a Starbucks Americano. “Cammy!” He scowls at the name, though he thanks her for the drink. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“I’m returning your jacket,” Maralynn tells him, and belatedly he notices the suit jacket he’d had on the night of Hayley’s party, under dry cleaners’ plastic, draped over the back of the other chair. “I know I joked that I’d keep it, but a nice suit’s expensive, and I wouldn’t ever do such a thing for realsies.” 

Cameron stares down into her face, which has somehow become almost as familiar as his own in the span of two short months, watches as a smile and a hint of a flush crosses its lovely contours, and though he still couldn’t condone it, he can completely understand why that frat boy type had taken a picture of her at the club. “Oh.” So articulate in the courtroom, his words seem to have deserted him, and certainly the fact that Robin is beadily watching the two of them as she sips on a bright green frappuccino doesn’t help in the least.

“I talked to Rebecca to find out how to get here, and such,” Maralynn continues. “I stopped to get some coffee and takeout. She said that you were a bit of a workaholic when she worked with you, and Robin here confirms it. I hope you like pho and fresh rolls.”

“I see.” 

“Unless you have dinner plans already. Or a girlfriend. God, I forgot to ask that!”

“No, he doesn’t have a girlfriend,” Robin pipes up mischievously before a flabbergasted Cameron could answer the question himself. “I think I’ll take off for the day, boss. I stole two of the fresh rolls. Good night, you two.” Without further ado, she steps out from behind her desk, shakes Maralynn’s hand. “I’ll see you around. It was nice to meet you!” Then she aims a saucy look at Cameron, blithely unconcerned with the scowl he returns. “Don’t do anything too naughty, boss.”

The door shuts behind her before Cameron can say anything in response, and he glares at it for a moment before turning back to the young woman in front of him. “Well. I didn’t expect you to come all the way out here.” 

“Well, I don’t know much about you outside of what coffee you like, and where you work. I didn’t have another way of contacting you.” She laughs quietly even as she opens up the various takeout containers on the coffee table. “I mean, I could have camped out at Starbucks, hoping that you’d show up one of these days, but I’m pretty sure that’d be pretty pathetic and Lia would tell me so to my face. Not to mention, I’m graduating in a month, so I really shouldn’t be missing any classes right now.”

“You’re right about that. And… thanks. For bringing my jacket back, and for the food. You didn’t have to.”

“Well, you didn’t have to help me out the other night, either. I’ve been rather annoying to you, haven’t I? No, don’t answer that.” She laughs quietly. “You’d either lie or hurt my feelings if you answer that.”

“I don’t think you’re annoying,” The words slip out before Cameron can think too deeply about then, so he quickly switches focus to the other point. “As for the other night, yes. Yes, I did. I have no tolerance for men who act like that towards a woman. There’s no excuse for it. It’s not a  compliment, it’s not attraction. A real man who truly cared about a woman wouldn’t act that way.”

Maralynn looks at him for a long moment, almost to the point that he feels his face heating up uncomfortably, before smiling softly. “I’m glad you think so. Now… pho?”

“Okay.” Cameron takes a seat in the other chair and glances down at the Starbucks to-go cup in his hand, and wonders if Robin had let slip that he had a perfectly good coffee pot in his office, making the morning excursions to that cafe a superfluous waste of money. Not a waste of time, though.


	3. The Month Of November

November 2nd, 12am

They’d met up at Starbucks after dinner, then walked the short distance to his place. Both had decorously studied for a good three hours, and then as though by mutual agreement, both of them were winding down. Shane, who’d been chipping away at Topology, stands up from the desk by his keyboard and seats himself at the piano instead, flexing his fingers. 

Curled up on the couch, still half-heartedly taking notes, Annette’s eyelids are drooping, blue-black fringes of lashes shadowy and alluring over heavy-lidded sapphire eyes. “Play something easy, something you enjoy. It’s late, and I’m sure you’re tired, too.”

Shane is; he’s about halfway through the first movement of his musical composition final piece, and it is decidedly the most ambitious project he has ever undertaken. Perhaps the most ambitious project he would ever undertake. The music always comes easier, though, when she’s there, as though her quiet breaths stir the air around the piano wires like a caress of arpeggios and her quiet gaze shines like the most gorgeous cadenza. But it’s not done, and he wouldn’t play it for anyone until it was. Easy. Enjoyable.

Debussy’s _Children’s Corner Suite_ was something he’d learnt in his early teens; the evocative, misty impressionistic music seems to fit the mood for this soft witching hour. The notes of _Dr. Gradus ad Parnassum_ flow out like the rush of running water, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Annette smile sleepily as she listens. 

It’s after he finishes _The Snow Is Dancing_ but before he starts _The Little Shepherd_ that he notices that she’s now stretched out full-length on the couch, but it’s only after he plays the last, sassy notes of _Golliwogg’s Cake Walk_ that he notices that she’s fast asleep, cheek pillowed on top of one hand, which still rests over her textbook. 

There’s absolute silence in the living room for a few moments, and in those moments, Shane can do nothing but watch her sleep, her breaths soft and even, a few locks of her dark hair drooping forward over her cheek. He shifts them carefully out of her face, but she doesn’t stir. The skin underneath his fingertips is soft as sun-warmed satin. 

His room’s just down the hall, cluttered but mercifully not horribly messy. Shane swallows, then stoops and puts one arm underneath her legs, the other underneath her back. She curls her face into the crook of his shoulder when he lifts her up, but still doesn’t wake, even when he carefully lays her down in his bed. Her hair is vividly dark against the white pillowcase, and she naturally curls up on her side, one hand reaching towards the other side of the bed, where had someone else been lying there, her fingers would be resting on warm skin. 

His breath leaves in a shaky exhale. Beautiful, brainy Annette, with her soft-spoken ways and her secret dreams, her wistful eyes and her precise penmanship. Professor Kyne’s words to him, earlier in the term, suddenly ring in his ears, haunting as a siren call. 

_I have faith that you will find that reason-- that one person or thing that will fill you with every emotion a person can feel, and take from you everything you have to give._

It’s well past midnight, far too late for this renewed bout of energy, but there’s nothing for it. With infinite care, Shane takes off Annette’s shoes, then gently tucks the blankets up to her chin. Then, he quietly shuts the bedroom door behind him and walks back into the living room, makes a beeline for the keyboard. 

Now the music comes, frenetic, free-flowing like a fairy fountain. He’s still playing an hour and a half later, when Noel arrives home after a shift at the bar. And when Noel turns in for the night at somewhere around four o’clock in the morning, he’s still playing. 

__**_ _

__November 2nd, 9am_ _

__The pillowcase underneath her cheek is white rather than powder blue, and the sheets are unfamiliar-- sage green flannel, a great deal softer and fluffier than the linen on her own bed. There’s a utilitarian lamp with a white shade on the nightstand next to a digital alarm clock and a phone charging dock, where her phone had been thoughtfully plugged in, and her books are piled neatly in front of it. The furniture is simplistic-- slightly faded blond wood. A few shirts are draped over the desk chair, and the desk itself is a clutter of eclectic odds and ends ranging from an expensive-looking bluetooth speaker to a Go board to a tattered copy of Isaac Asimov’s _The Foundation Trilogy_ to a scattering of spiral notebooks of varying sizes and types-- college ruled, graph paper, and musical manuscript paper alike. The wastebasket underneath the desk is almost full, but carefully placed side by side on the floor at the foot of the bed are her shoes. _ _

__Annette finds her bearings within seconds, and her eyes widen in a little bit of consternation. It had been late last night, and Shane had been playing something on the piano-- something at turns whimsical and soft, free-flowing and dreamy. The tinkling notes-- clear and sweet as crystal-- had lulled her to sleep. And she had slept soundly enough that she’d not woken when he’d moved her from the living room to what must be his bedroom. The mortification which comes then is immediate and profound._ _

__The sun is streaming through the vertical blinds, and there’s nothing for it but to bite the bullet. Gingerly stepping into her shoes, she carefully makes the bed and edges her way out of the room. The bathroom’s just one door down, and while it definitely lacks the pretty touches of Melia’s-- rose petal potpourri and vanilla candles and handmade soaps redolent of lavender and honey-- it’s not quite as sparse or messy as one might expect of a guy. She makes do with a squirt of toothpaste on a finger, a splash of cold water and unscented lotion for her face, and makes her cautious way out to the living room._ _

__“He’s knocked out.”_ _

__Noel, whose hair looks damp from the shower, is walking down the stairs from the upper level of the flat just as Annette reaches the living room area. The burly man quietly gestures the couch where she’d been studying last night, and Shane’s curled up in almost the exact same spot. His hair is an unruly mess half-covering his face with a riot of soft sandy-blond curls, the top half-flattened by the bulky headphones that he still wears on his ears. His body is half-covered by a throw blanket._ _

__“Oh God. I sort of kicked him out of his own bed, didn’t I?” Annette whispered to no one in particular, feeling more mortified than ever. “I didn’t mean to!”_ _

__“Oh, nothing of the sort, don’t you worry,” Noel gestures for her to follow him with a kindly smile. “I didn’t turn in until about four AM, and he was still up and going full steam ahead at the time. I got up to go to the bathroom at about seven, and he was finally asleep then, at his desk. I sort of steered him towards the couch instead. Here, come to the kitchen. We can let the madman sleep off his binge.”_ _

__“Binge?” It’s a word she associates with extravagance, with vices and dependency. Not with a renegade artistic soul like Shane._ _

__“He gets like that sometimes. The first known and recorded incident of this ilk happened a good-- hmm, maybe ten years ago? When he was in middle school and learning his first concerto. I only heard secondhand accounts, but supposedly he spent the entirety of Spring Break working at it the way normal kids binge on Grand Theft Auto and Call of Duty.” Noel guides her into their kitchen-- quite spartan indeed compared to Melia’s-- and rummages through the fridge. “Want something? Milk? Orange juice? Crappy instant coffee? There’s not much by way of real breakfast stuff but I’m about to grab a pop tart myself-- do you want strawberry or chocolate chip?”_ _

__“You don’t have to,” Annette murmurs, embarrassed. “I have definitely already overstayed my welcome.”_ _

__“No, I’m sure you haven’t,” Noel replies with quiet conviction. “Shane wouldn’t have let you in the door if there was even the slightest chance for that, you see. I’ve known the kid since his freshman year, so you’ll just have to trust me on this.” He _eeny-meeny-miney-moes_ the pop tarts and gives her the strawberry one; and pours her a glass of water when she turns down the milk and orange juice and coffee. _ _

__Annette nibbles on one corner of the pastry, watching Noel as he mixes sugar and cream into his coffee. He looks perfectly at ease with her presence here, and not at all concerned that his roommate is passed out on the couch in the other room. She should be perfectly at ease with him, too, considering the fact that he was over at her place almost every day. He eats his pop tart quite a bit faster than she does, but sits with her, big and patient and good-humoured, while she finishes._ _

__She’s on the last corner before she ventures a question. “So, you said you’ve known Shane since his freshman year?”_ _

__“Sure did. Sort of an odd character, in some ways. Didn’t really give a damn about what everyone else thought was cool, or attempt to do the typical things like go to parties on the weekends or bang hot sorority girls. I was actually the dorm RA, got to know him quite well during the first term because he’d always be up and out and about, sometimes quite late at night, and in the typical freshman way, sometimes would forget his keycard and get locked out. I would’ve been annoyed by it if it’d been for the typical reasons like partying or whatever, but it never was. I got to know him a bit-- he’s a scholarship kid. Full ride. Certifiable genius. Not particularly a people person, but then again, hard to be. I mean, if you’re coming from a home where playing music is considered a sissy activity for girls-- the piano at his house was his grandmother’s and she was the only one who'd paid for his lessons, as I understand. Furthermore, as far as his folks were concerned, being good at school is considered unforgivably nerdy and wussy,  and your dad’s just super salty that you have no intention of going to work at the family car dealership like your older brothers all did.” Noel’s smile is sad, adding a hint of nobility to his rugged features, “I wondered, the first year, why he stayed here for the holidays. Figured it was his course load, but wondered. Then I happened to be around in the lobby one day when his folks visited and it all made sense. Now, sometimes I wonder if he chose the absolute most-- difficult and impractical, career-wise-- fields of study he could possibly get into-- sort of as a big 'Fuck You' to his parents, when he could’ve chosen a more practical route of, say, sound engineering, based on his interests. He’s just arrogant-- and vulnerable-- enough to do that.”_ _

__Annette’s hands twist the bottom hem of her shirt almost into a knot in her lap at Noel’s stark words. Even an absentee father must be better than an unsupportive one. “How did he manage to-- to get to where he is, growing up like that?”_ _

__“Oh, it was well into second term before he really started talking about himself. The grandma, when she was alive. He had some good teachers at school, as I understand it. Took care of him and what he needed where his parents fell short. I mean-- they weren’t bad people, per se, his folks. Just sort of simple-minded. Not ready for a kid like him. They were tickled pink when he got a full ride here, though. Very practical, that scholarship. But of course if it had been their choice, it would’ve been something a bit more glamorous, like getting a full ride via NCAA for football. Though…” Here Noel grins and winks, perhaps in an effort to cheer her up, “Could you even imagine Shane as an asshole Tom Brady type? Deflategate and all?”_ _

__No, no she couldn’t. Annette finishes her pop tart, then carefully rinses both her plate and her glass. “I should get going,” she mumbles, peeping up at Noel. “Thanks for everything. Really.”_ _

__“There’s a cliche about any friend of Melia’s is a friend of mine. Same goes for Shane. So really, _mi casa, su casa_.” Noel smiles and gives her a quick, rather brotherly pat on the shoulder before stepping back. “Do you need a ride home or anything?”_ _

__“No, it’s okay. I’ll just go grab my stuff. Thank you, though. I’ll just show myself out.”_ _

__He nods, and excuses himself, disappearing back up the stairs. Before Annette goes to retrieve her books and her phone, though, she detours quickly to the living room. Shane is still fast asleep on the couch, utterly still. He must have been exhausted when he’d finally turned in._ _

__Gently, she extricates the headphones from his head, taking care not to tangle any of the plastic-and-pleather parts in the silky whorls of his hair. With equal care, she pulls the throw blanket up to his chin. He doesn’t wake._ _

__Annette watches him for a minute more, then walks down the hall to fetch her things. The door of the flat shuts silently behind her as she ventures out into the brisk autumn air._ _

__**_ _

__November 4th, 5am_ _

__Melia raises an eyebrow at the familiar blonde who walks into Starbucks at the start of her shift. Maralynn certainly haunts her workplace often enough at this hour, but usually with a sassy smile and a sassier word. This morning’s version of her friend is curled up in her favoured chair, quite more subdued than usual. And while the colourblock dress she’s wearing-- a pop of lemon yellow amidst its somber shades of gray-- is cute and becoming, it’s definitely staid in comparison to her usually-perfectly-playful looks. Also of slight concern is the fact that Jordan seems to have abandoned his spot from behind the counter altogether in favour of sitting down with her, as though to console her._ _

__Jordan looks up when she walks over, and the faintly wry smile on his face says it all. “I’ll go get you a refill. Melia can sit with you a bit.”_ _

__Melia takes the seat that Jordan has vacated, and looks down at the blonde. “Okay. Spill.”_ _

__Maralynn breathes out a gusty sigh. “I am a shallow twit.”_ _

__“And you came to this outlandish conclusion...how?” Melia crosses her arms with a frown. “I know you’re not the type to give in to the Negative Nancy’s in the comments sections of your posts. You’ve never really cared about haters before, so what’s brought this on?”_ _

__“Yeah, I know,” Maralynn smiles weakly as Jordan returns with another cup. “Thanks, boo. I know that you want no part of tonight’s episode of the Maralynn Avery drama-rama.”_ _

__“It happens to the best of us,” Jordan says with an easy smile, and sits down next to Melia. “Do you want to tell her, or do you want me to?”_ _

__“I have the biggest crush on the worst possible guy!” Maralynn bursts out, the words tripping over each other as though she’s just trying to get the confession over with. “He absolutely has no use for me. Like, none at all. He doesn’t like me at all, nor should he. And I know I’ve had a lot of crushes before in my time. But this one isn’t just a cute bod or a pretty face or a great sense of humour or whatever. He’s really actually too good for me. Like legit. And oh gawd he definitely would have no use for someone who overuses ‘like’ in her sentences like the stereotypical dumb blonde Valley girl!”_ _

__Melia exchanges a long glance with Jordan and leans back in her chair. “Might this guy in question be a certain scary lawyer type whose name shall not be mentioned who comes here some mornings around the same time as you?”_ _

__If Maralynn weren’t actually distressed, Melia would have laughed at the comical way her eyes widen and her mouth drops open. “How did you guess?” the blonde gasps. “And should we really be calling him the name that won’t be mentioned? Makes him sound sort of like Lord Voldemort from Harry Potter, doesn’t it? And he is NOT a noseless snake man!”_ _

__Melia can’t stop herself from laughing this time, and turns towards Jordan for help._ _

__“Honey,” Jordan says slowly but not unkindly, “I hate to break it to you, but you’re not exactly subtle. We were both waiting for you to figure it out for the last month or so.”_ _

__“Really?” Maralynn looks genuinely shocked, then suddenly claps both hands over her face. “Oh God! Does HE know??”_ _

__“Probably not,” Melia drawls, “He probably thinks you hate him for whatever reason. All you’ve done is bicker with him over coffee.”_ _

__“N-noo… that’s not it. We’ve done… other things.”_ _

__Now both Jordan and Melia lean forward. “Explain.”_ _

__“Yeah, what he said.”_ _

__“Well! You should know, Jordan! It was your cousin’s engagement party! I’m sure you were there!” Maralynn scowls at him. “I was there at the club briefly. Not for the party. Not long at all, actually. Just… anyway, some guy tried to take creepy pictures of me, and Cammy was there, and he cussed out that guy for me and broke his phone. But then the guy was about to start swinging so we left. And I didn’t have time to get my coat out of coat check, so he loaned me his suit jacket.” Rosy lips purse into a mournful pout. “It smells even nicer up close.”_ _

__“Ah. So that guy you mentioned in that one video of yours is about him,” Jordan muses aloud. “I was wondering, for a moment.”_ _

__“Exactly.” Maralynn finishes drinking the refill he’d handed her and sighs. “He actually brought me here-- Lizzy was here, and I don’t think she recognized him or whatever-- I digress-- and we had coffee, and then he drove me home. Of course, I went and picked up my coat from that club the next day, then figured out via Rebecca how to get a hold of him at his work, to return his jacket.” Even in the midst of her own tale, she can’t seem to help but dart a glance at Jordan. “She’s actually really nice, Rebecca. A bit reserved. You did good.”_ _

__“I’ve done nothing, but thanks. Also, we weren’t talking about me.”_ _

__“Anyway, I figured I’d do the nice thing. When someone does you a good turn, you do the same for them and all that, right? So I got some takeout and some coffee and dropped by his office to drop off his jacket.” Maralynn leans her elbows on the table and rests her chin wearily on her hands. “He was a bit taken aback, but we shared a nice meal. He asked me about myself. I found myself telling him every damn thing about me-- like he literally knows the story of how I found Arty on my way to school and was super late that day and stuff! _He knows about my cat!!_ And my hobbies and stuff! I think at one point I was even babbling over the fact that I did a video testing how transfer-proof the most popular matte lipsticks were by eating pho-- because I’d gotten pho takeout. And he listened like he actually cared. Asked questions, even.”_ _

__“Okay. For the record, and I am saying this in the most respectful way possible, but no guy in the world, unless he has some sort of secret goal of becoming Jeffree Star when he grows up-- which, dude, the guy’s an asshat-- would willingly listen to you talk about lipstick transfer tests unless he actually cared about you as a person. Because, and again I’m saying this in the most respectful way possible, that’s just not a topic that we stupid neanderthals find very interesting or relevant. And while yes, people in his line of work tend to be good listeners because they have to be, I would figure that the line would be drawn at the cat stories and lipstick videos.” Jordan smiles at her. “Your scary lawyer probably considers you a sort-of friend. At least a friendly acquaintance.”_ _

__“More to the point, what happened after your cozy dinner date?” Melia asks._ _

__“Well, he didn’t talk that much about his work. Probably can’t, which I get. He said that he went to undergrad and law school at Columbia, graduated both early, and worked in various different capacities before becoming a prosecutor here. His best friend in law school was Jordan’s cousin, and he told me a few stories about her.” Here Maralynn glances at Jordan again and smiles. “She seems like a character. I see where you get it from.”_ _

__“Oh, she’s a holy terror and proud of it. I’m totally harmless compared to that one. But at least he talked a bit about himself, too. He wasn’t just doing the nod and smile thing, which means he was at least somewhat engaged in you and your conversation. And then?”_ _

__“And then we finished eating, and cleaned up. He drove me home even though I was just going to call an Uber, and didn’t seem to care that I was singing along with the radio again. He even walked me to my door even though it really wasn’t like the mad axe murderers of our college campus were waiting in those very dry and dead hedges by the entrance of the building. And then it was almost awkward for a second because, well, because!!” At Melia’s look, Maralynn hastens to continue. “He didn’t kiss me or anything! Why would he? I did kiss his cheek because I figured we were probably past the dry old handshake stage, but he looked so discombobulated that I sort of panicked and booked it upstairs to my apartment.”_ _

__“Well, maybe he’s shy around girls. Lots of people whose lives have mostly revolved around work and/or school may be a bit awkward in social situations, especially unexpected ones such as he found himself in.” Melia gets up from her chair. “Now, I need to get to work in a minute so that Jordan can go home, so I’m going to just say this: I’m also quite sure that if he considered you out of line at any point in time, he’d have told you so. The guy had no qualms whatsoever calling the guy at the club out, and pretty sure that as a prosecutor, he’s pretty used to telling off people who’ve done wrong, and wouldn’t care if it offended the person in question.”_ _

__“I know. It’s just…” Maralynn smiles wistfully, “You know how I had a crappy date on my birthday? Like, it was an actual date, that the guy invited me on, and paid for everything, and that I dressed up nice for, and all that? Well, the other night, just sharing takeout at his office, knowing damn well it wasn’t supposed to mean anything? It was the best date I’ve ever been on. And the guy in question has no use for me.”_ _

__“Hey, you never know,” Jordan punches out when Melia punches in, then rejoins her at her table now sans green apron. His gazes down at her, and though his usual smile is in place on his lips, his eyes are somber as they meet hers, cobalt to cerulean. “And, if you truly care for a person-- if it’s more than just a crush, you’ll find that they make your life better just by being there. That knowing them is its own reward, and you’re a better person for it.” His voice bears a hint of something which suggests that the words come from personal experience. “No matter what happens with them. You know?”_ _

__Maralynn stares at him as though hypnotized. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”_ _

__He breaks the mood of that moment with a wink. “Of course, in your case, I’m going to hope for the best. Guy’s a great tipper and always polite, so he’s a-okay in my books from the point of view of lowly Starbucks barista. But on a personal level, it’d be great if someone taught him to smile more. Just sayin’. Being a prosecutor’s gotta be grim-- he could use some light in the darkness, so to speak. So who knows? Maybe he can find some use for you, after all.”_ _

__**_ _

__November 12th, 9pm_ _

__It’s at the tail end of an afternoon at the law offices of Tanner and Associates and Rebecca is putting away the latest notes on the custody case when her cell phone vibrates in her purse. One look at the number has her rolling her eyes and sighing loudly enough to catch the attention of the eagle-eyed Blaise, who is fiddling with an oversized rainbow-coloured slinky while powering down her computer._ _

__“Hi, Kaden.” Another eye roll, a restless little pace in front of Blaise’s desk, a sneer perfectly outlined in Mac’s Ruby Woo lipstick. “Yes, you can tell him I’ll be there. No. Don’t come pick me up, please and thank you.”_ _

__Blaise drops the slinky silently into its spot amidst the other quirky gadgets of her collection and edges out from behind the desk, making sure to stay a respectful distance away from Rebecca’s phone conversation, but raising an eyebrow as though to silently ask if everything was all right. Rebecca mimes shooting herself in the head with her thumb and two fingers, then rolls her eyes again._ _

__“No, I can’t really talk right now. I don’t have anything to say, anyway. I suppose I’ll see you on Thanksgiving. Bye.” Tossing the phone back into her purse, she gives the law firm’s receptionist a slightly apologetic look. “Sorry. It’s my dad’s assistant-minion-type flunky.”_ _

__Blaise nods slowly, then grins and rattles off facts like a veteran detective. “Kaden Rothschild, age 32. Undergrad and law school at Harvard, legacy kid, third generation. Married at age 25 to Meagan Lodge-Prescott, divorced aged 30. Now engaged to a Mitzy Halliwell, no relation to the Spice Girl as far as I can tell but whoever even knows, right? Has been employed at the law firm of Hewitt and Kearney since he started law school. Sound about right?”_ _

__“Ah… how did you know?” Rebecca’s sure her facial expression is an unbecoming one of dumbfounded shock, but Blaise merely grins wider._ _

__“Uh, background check? When you got in? You know, standard operating procedures and the like? That aided and abetted by natural nosiness and Page Six makes me like the Penelope Garcia of the Law Firm of Bamfy Women, and don’t you forget it!”_ _

__“I can see it,” Rebecca smiles weakly. “Anyway, it’s not a big deal. I can’t say I’m crazy about the guy, but he always insists on calling me personally to invite me to these family get-togethers like he’s actually a member of my family or something, and he’s not. But then again, at least it would mean that he and my father would be there to talk to each other during the Thanksgiving meal. Otherwise, after a ten-minute interrogation about my life and my grades, both of which are not eventful enough to warrant any real conversation of any kind, there’d be awkward silence, because I don’t have anything to say to either of them.”_ _

__“Eww. Sounds like a great time. Is the food good, at least?” Blaise asks as the two make their way out of the office and towards the elevator._ _

__“The food is exceptional and fancy and catered,” Rebecca answers wryly. “No boxed mashed potatoes or canned cranberry sauce to be found.”_ _

__“So the solution is simple. Get a plate of food and a beer, retreat to the den to watch football, and close the door behind you.”_ _

__“I don’t like football.”_ _

__“Oh gawd, don’t say that! Thrilling plays! Nice butts in tight pants!”_ _

__“I don’t like beer, either.”_ _

__“You could bring a friend, maybe. What about that? Or, ooh, a date! You could bring a date!” Blaise perks up at her own train of thoughts. “Then you can get a plate of food and a glass of fancy red wine, retreat to the den to cuddle, and close the door behind you. Or at least have someone to talk to and so on.”_ _

__Rebecca gives the other young woman a wry look as she pushes the door open. “You sound like you’re offering.”_ _

__“Oh, I totally would were it not for the fact that I have to make a fun trek all the way to Jersey that very same day just so that my mother can serve me boxed mashed potatoes and canned cranberry sauce. Hey, I could always kidnap you to Jersey!” Just at that moment, though, a tall figure steps up to the door and Blaise almost crashes into him, but she sidesteps at the last minute, even as her eyes light up in recognition behind her glasses. “Orrr.... Hey Jordan. The only person left in there is your cousin, and that is because she’s crazy. I suppose you’re here to drop off the thing.”_ _

__“Yeah, that. Good evening, ladies.” Jordan smiles in his usual friendly fashion at both of them, his eyes lingering over Rebecca’s face for a few moments before he glances back at Blaise, raising an eyebrow at her expression. “And, Blaise, why are you looking at me like that?”_ _

__But Blaise turns her cheeky, calculating expression towards Rebecca next. “Jordan doesn’t have to make the trek to Jersey. As a matter of fact, Jordan doesn’t have to make a trek anywhere. His folks are going out of town for Thanksgiving-- Tahiti, if I remember correctly. You could ask him! You’d be doing him a favour, really! This way he doesn’t have to buy a turkey cheddar lunchable and think that it’s a Thanksgiving dinner!”_ _

__“Bring me where?” Jordan asks, turning towards Rebecca. His tone is wry, but his smile is soft and kind. “I assume you’re the one asking, as it were, and not Blaise? Blaise wouldn’t ask. She’d just tell me to show up someplace.”_ _

__“Nothing,” Rebecca mumbles, feeling completely put on the spot. “It’s not a big deal. Thanksgiving dinner at my dad’s. I don’t actually have to bring anyone. Blaise just happened to witness an uncordial phone call between my dad’s douchey assistant and myself, and…”_ _

__“... Interfered? As in, steam-roller style?” Jordan finishes for her. He reaches out and takes her hand in a move so natural it throws Rebecca off even more. “Look, let me drop off this packet with Hayley, then if you’d like, I can give you a ride back to campus and you can tell me all about it.”_ _

__He releases her hand after giving it a quick squeeze, and then he’s striding through the door before Rebecca can reply. Blaise, the traitor, has also disappeared into thin air. Rebecca doesn’t have time to get indignant at the other girl’s quick retreat, though, before Jordan is walking right back out._ _

__“All right.” Jordan walks with her to where his car is parked, and pulls open the passenger side door. “So. Douchey assistant. Uncordial phone call. Thanksgiving dinner. That’s about as much as I got out of what she was saying.”_ _

__“My dad’s assistant called me to ask if I was still planning on going to Thanksgiving dinner,” Rebecca says, staring moodily out the window at the streetlights passing in a stream. “I mean, obviously I am. It’s Thanksgiving, and dad’s sort of the only family that I have left, so what else would I do, right? That doesn’t mean that I particularly enjoy spending time with the rich, entitled snobs from his firm who will be there sucking up to my dad and looking down on the caterers and staff. They mostly leave me alone, because I don’t exactly do anything that they can harp on, but those few hours are still going to be a drag. Kaden also offered to pick me up-- he’s the aforementioned douchey assistant, but I’m not about to subject myself to an hour’s worth of condescending remarks and whatever twittish nonsense his gold-digging fiancée feels like subjecting me to.”_ _

__“And so Blaise suggested bringing someone with you for company and support, I take it?” Jordan brakes at a stoplight, and glances at her. “You know, her idea has merit. At best, you’ll be there with a friend who you can talk to about more interesting things than who has the biggest portfolio and fanciest yacht and so on. At worst, they’ll at least be too busy grilling the interloper in their midst to give you a hard time.”_ _

__“But you don’t have to do this, you know,” Rebecca says sullenly. “You wouldn’t get anything out of it. Trust me, Jordan, these guys aren’t exactly what I’d call scintillating company.”_ _

__“Oh, I totally beg to differ.”_ _

__“Huh?”_ _

__The car comes to a stop, and she realizes, quite abruptly, that they’ve already arrived at her building. Jordan throws it in park and hops out, opening the door for her, then walks with her to the door._ _

__“I’d get a decent meal out of it, I daresay, yeah? As for the company…” He pauses, and suddenly Rebecca realizes that his face is practically close enough to hers that she can count his individual eyelashes, glittering gold under the overhead light of the door. He’s close enough to kiss her, and for a wild moment she thinks she might let him, but he steps back, usual easy smile in place, and carefully tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Yours is exceptional. When do you want me to pick you up?”_ _

__**_ _

__November 14th, 4am_ _

__It’s a typical sort of Wednesday morning, chilly and quiet, when Melia arrives for her shift at Starbucks. It’s that slow and calm time before the morning rush, and Jordan’s wiping down the counter when she comes in._ _

__“Slow night. You are stocked, locked, loaded and ready to go, milady. I even detail-cleaned the espresso machine because I know how you feel about that thing.”_ _

__“Aren’t you just the bee’s knees?” Melia laughs. “I’m surprised the nocturnal philosophy major crowd allowed you the time to do it. They usually sort of commandeer that thing all night long at regular intervals while debating about Nietzsche.”_ _

__“I made an offhand remark about Foucault to distract them. It changed the scope of the usual debate and bought me a good hour of time. A week until Thanksgiving! You ready for your usual?”_ _

__“I am. What about you? Do you actually have plans this year or do I have to drag you along again?”_ _

__“I… have plans.”_ _

__The pause in his words has Melia looking up, and the expression on his face has her furrowing her brow in concern. “What’s the matter?”_ _

__“Oh, nothing,” Jordan lets out a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan. “I seem to have a fancy Thanksgiving dinner to attend, sort of spur-of-the-moment invitation.”_ _

__“And that’s worrying you?” Melia raises an eyebrow. “I went WITH you last year to the Christmas party for your cousin’s firm and they booked out a whole club-- VIP, bottle service, and the whole nine yards. I had to get a whole new cocktail gown for the festivities, which meant that I had to subject myself to a Maralynn Avery-sponsored shopping spree and makeover, which, by the way, was an all-day affair more stressful and complicated than getting my Servsafe certification. You conducted yourself quite well at that gig, as I recall. And, being a guy, you can totally wear one suit to everything formal, ever, and not have to get a new dress for every special occasion like we girls do.”_ _

__“All salient points, but this is different. Becky got a phone call the other day from some of her dad’s people, and, long story short, I’m going with her to her family-- or more accurately-- her family and father’s law firm’s-- Thanksgiving dinner.”_ _

__“Becky? Ohh. Rebecca. I see.” Melia pauses and looks at Jordan. She’s only a tiny bit shorter than him, and stares him straight in the eye. “It’s not about the fancy party. It’s about Rebecca. Do you really call her Becky? And she’s okay with it?”_ _

__“I don’t know if she’s okay with it,” Jordan murmurs with a self-deprecating smile. “But she’s Rebecca to everyone else, you know?”_ _

__He doesn’t elaborate. Melia looks up into her friend’s forthright blue eyes, and everything that he doesn’t say is readable in his gaze. She thinks about Noel, and the way that he only calls her Melia, rather than the simpler Lia that most people prefer to use, and understands. “You’re crazy about her.” She doesn’t phrase it as a question._ _

__“I’d like to think that I’m reasonably sane. Comparatively.”_ _

__“That’s not what I meant, and you’re evading.” Melia feels herself breaking into a smile. “You care for her, as more than just a friend. You’re attracted to her. You probably would’ve asked her out sometime in the near future, and had a great time, but now your first ‘date’, as it were, is not only some snooty highbrow affair, but on her turf, with a lot of potentially-hostile witnesses including but certainly not limited to her father. And when a girl is that pretty, it’s not a huge stretch to believe that said father will greet you on the porch, in a rocking chair, toting a 12-gauge shotgun.”_ _

__“Considering who her father is, the rocking chair on the porch will be some throne-like ergonomic leather office chair backlit by a black marble fireplace, and the 12-gauge shotgun will be a semi-automatic pistol with a silencer carried by an unsmiling giant in an Italian suit who goes by ‘Tiny Tim’.” Jordan takes a deep breath and rakes one hand through his blond hair. “I’m not even worried about what type of interrogation they might subject me to, not really. But, from what little she’s let slip, her relationship with her father is a bit… tense. Fraught. I’m afraid that this evening will cause her grief.” A smile, far more somber and sad than usual, crosses his lips. “I’m going primarily as moral support. I don’t think it’s supposed to be fun.”_ _

__“Ah. And you’re doing this of your own volition, not because she pressured you in any way, because she wouldn’t be the type to do so anyway? To smooth things over for her, and make her happy-- or at least, to make sure she’s not upset?” Melia whistles through her teeth. “You’re sunk, my friend. All the way to the bottom. This is no mere infatuation.”_ _

__Jordan shrugs but doesn’t deny it. “I hope it goes well.”_ _

__“The dinner? Or liking her? The first probably will have its awkward moments. But as for the latter-- I think you have a chance.” Melia smiles encouragingly at him. “You know, a girl like Rebecca would find one thing about you irresistible.” At his mock eyebrow-waggle, she tsks. “No, not your ripped physique and pretty eyes, though she’d certainly appreciate them. But the fact that you listen to her, and are genuinely interested in what she has to say. She’s undoubtedly had people telling her all her life that she’s beautiful, and smart, and classy. It’s not often that someone would make her feel like she’s actually interesting as a person, the way that you do.”_ _

__“And you feel like I do that?”_ _

__“Jordan Lee, you act like you give a damn to friggin’ Donna ‘I live to bitch’ Bartleby and her faux soy allergy and her bullshit frappuccino modifications. Rebecca must feel like she’s the center of your universe when you’re talking to her. If she doesn’t appreciate that even a little bit, then she’s not worthy of you.” Melia gives him a quick one-armed hug, then grins. “Thankfully for the both of you, I do think she knows, and cares, whether or not that bred-in reticence will let her say so. So in a few years when you have a ridiculously lavish society wedding coming up, hit me up for the elaborate fifteen-tier monstrosity of a cake, hmm? I could use the publicity by then.”_ _

__“I think that’s my cue to punch out and go home,” Jordan says dryly.  “Have a fabulous morning, Lia.”_ _

__He doesn’t contradict anything she says, though._ _

__**_ _

__November 17th, 5am_ _

__It’s the third morning in a row that he’s stopped at Starbucks for completely superfluous coffee at an indecent hour of the morning, but Cameron doesn’t choose to analyze it, and twenty-eight years of perfecting his poker face means that on this morning, he doesn’t betray anything but the most infinitesimal almost-smile when he spots a splash of vibrant colour-- a bright red tam over golden hair over a russet-red tunic sweater-- approaching the cafe counter. She has evidently just walked in; the brunette barista is chatting with her rather than starting on her usual elaborate drink, and so he clears his throat._ _

__“Triple Americano, black, and that sugary concoction extra whipped cream and sprinkles and whatnot that she usually gets.”_ _

__Maralynn’s shoulders stiffen, but then she whirls around in a billowing cloud of angora and sunshiney hair. “Cammy! You old flirt! I totally can buy my own coffee!”_ _

__“I know, but you randomly bought me dinner that one time. It’s simply fair.” He clears his throat again and focuses all his attention on digging a five-dollar bill out of his wallet to tip the barista, because it’s better to do that than pay any sort of attention to how pink her cheeks are from the cold outside._ _

__“Well, that’s sweet of you, but don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.” Maralynn winks, then sidles up to him, glancing at him through the corner of her eye. “I will make sure to say, in the off-chance that I run into anyone you know through work, that you are totally scary and formidable and not-at-all-secretly-capable-of-being-nice. Are you excited for Thanksgiving? Do you have family close by?”_ _

__“Close enough. You?”_ _

__“I’m hanging out with Lia at her gig on Thanksgiving, and then partaking in some fabulous Black Friday shopping.”_ _

__Cameron shudders at the very thought of dealing with crotchety crowds of materialistic fiends swarming a Walmart parking lot at 3am. “Ah.”_ _

__“Hey, don’t knock it! My family’s nowhere close at all, you see.” Maralynn snags her completed PSL from the pick-up counter and toasts him with it, gracing him with an ironic smile. “Other side of the country, all the way out in LA. I’m a California girl-- minus the Katy Perry whipped cream boobs. It took me all four years of undergrad to learn to buy proper fall and winter clothes and shoes. But no biggie-- I make bank on Black Friday and Cyber Monday,” Maralynn takes a sip of her coffee and grins up at him. “If I hit and review enough stores and their sales, I get enough to reimburse all my Christmas shopping and then some! And plus, graduation’s looming. Time’s a ticking. I need to have enough of a nest egg in place in case I can’t survive out in the real world and end up, in true Broke Millennial Style, gazillions of dollars in debt and living on an alternating diet of expensive macarons and instant noodles.”_ _

__Cameron isn’t quite sure of the meaning of the phrase ‘Katy Perry whipped cream boobs’, but decides that it is not feasible or practicable to ask for clarification. Furthermore, it does not bear thinking about at length right before he is due for court. Therefore, he chooses instead to latch upon the relatively more comprehensible part of her ramble, the part from earlier. “So you and Lia are spending Thanksgiving together.”_ _

__“Sort of! Lia and a few of her fellow culinary students whip up a massive Thanksgiving dinner at the Our Lady of Serenity Shelter downtown. The food ingredients and stuff are usually donated by local restaurants and businesses, and that dinner also kicks off the yearly holiday drive-- winter clothes, Christmas presents, canned goods and toiletries and so on-- for those who are in need. I’ve been there the last few years to help out-- I’m totally crap at anything in the kitchen, mind, but I am pretty damn awesome at getting publicity and wheedling donations out of people, if I do say so myself!” Maralynn beams up at him. “Last year I did a whole lead-up on Instagram and upped their year-over-year monetary contributions for the month by 10%.”_ _

__Even he can understand those numbers, and they’re certainly nothing to sneeze at. A business owner with year-over-year revenue growth of 10% would be a very happy individual indeed, and the fact that the young woman in front of him had utilized her voice and her influence for such a cause was impressive and admirable. Cameron made a mental note to have Robin send over a check to Our Lady of Serenity when he got to the office. “Seems like you have quite a busy week ahead of you.”_ _

__“It’s getting to be that time of the year,” Maralynn says breezily. “Everyone’s about to be busy, but I have to do something decent and worthwhile before blowing ridiculous amounts of money at Macy’s, you know?”_ _

__He nods, somewhat fascinated, dimly aware that Lia, the barista, is watching them with more than a little interest despite the steady stream of customers now entering the cafe. It’s high time for him to head downtown if he wants to get in any sort of workout at all at the gym before it’s time to report to work. “Well. Happy Thanksgiving, if I don’t see you before.”_ _

__“You too, Cammy.” She walks with him to the door, and seemingly on impulse, turns at the last minute, rises up on her toes, and kisses his cheek before bouncing off down the street, blonde hair billowing behind her with her quick footsteps._ _

__He’s quite certain that she was wearing lipstick; his face burns as though branded. Perhaps-- perhaps he can attribute it to the chill outside._ _

__**_ _

__November 19th, 5am_ _

__The air is frigid and the surface of the roof is hard, but up overhead, the stars shine more brightly visible than from ground-level. The camping-grade sleeping bag is old and worn, but provides adequate insulation against the chill; warmer, though, is the soft, feminine form ensconced in his arms, wearing one of his flannel shirts over her own sweater, cinnamon curls tickling his chin. Melia shivers, and Noel’s arms tighten around her._ _

__“I’m not cold, not exactly,” she laughs, though there’s a brittle note to it. Her hands-- warm, slightly calloused, with sensibly short nails, wrap around his own bigger ones. “How long’s your flight again?”_ _

__“Five hours and some change, with a one-hour layover in Chicago.”_ _

__Melia turns her face towards his, and her green eyes are over-bright with worry and something akin to fear. “Call me when you get to O’Hare. Please. As soon as they let you.”_ _

__There’s the ghost of something bigger and darker looming over them-- cold and grim as an overcast night sky. He knows the story; Melia’s not the sort to dissemble or equivocate, and on their second date, she’d told him without mincing words and indeed with an unusually stoical countenance that she’d lost her parents to a plane crash twelve years ago. He knows, too, that she turned down a coveted spot for a study abroad opportunity last year at Le Cordon Bleu in favour of staying where plane travel would not be a necessary part of her life._ _

__“I will. And I will call you once I land in Des Moines.” He smiles and brushes his fingers over her pale cheek. “I’m quite sure I’ll be calling you a lot. Did I mention that I’ll be surrounded by cows? And fields?”_ _

__“Ha, ha.” Melia takes a deep breath. “It was nice of your mom to invite me, though. I’m sorry I can’t go.”_ _

__“She understands,” Noel reassures her. Sarah Vaughn had made Melia’s acquaintance on a happenstance skype call about a month back when the latter happened to be at Noel’s, and had taken to Melia immediately. When Noel had explained that Melia had a prior engagement for Thanksgiving, his mother had made disappointed noises until he’d explained further. He would honestly not be surprised if she skyped Melia on her own to share recipes for hot beef sandwiches or puppy chow for a taste of the Midwest. “Here. Look up.”_ _

__“Hmm?” Melia glances at him quizzically, then follows the direction of his pointing fingers._ _

__“That’s Vega.” He points to a brightly shining star in the sky. “Part of the constellation Lyra. It’s more visible in the summer months.” He shifts her closer and points out another star. “That’s Altair, from the constellation Aquila. Usually now they’re starting to fade out of view, but we’re lucky.”_ _

__“Why do you say that?”_ _

__“There’s a story from ancient China. A mortal cowherd-- Altair-- falls in love with a beautiful fairy princess-- Vega. They run away with each other and live happily, but her parents in heaven are furious. They whisk her back to the celestial realms, leaving Altair and their two children behind, with the impassable Milky Way separating them. But, every year, on the seventh day of the seventh month, they’re reunited.”_ _

__It’s fanciful and romantic and meant to distract her, and it works a little bit. “It’s not the seventh day of the seventh month,” Melia says wryly._ _

__“No. But usually by this late in the year you wouldn’t be able to see them anymore, either, because of the rotation of the planet and the positions of the stars.” He presses his lips to her forehead. “It’s just Iowa. Not a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.”_ _

__She snorts out a laugh. “I think you’re mixing your metaphors. Or something. Dork.”_ _

__At least, gentle ridicule aside, her hands are steady now over his. “So, Shane’s driving me to the airport Tuesday morning. He’s not going this year, either. Up to his ears in work between his comp final and his math thesis.” Melia, whose heart is warm and open as a prairie sky, could use something to distract herself from the worrying, and Noel takes a deep breath. “Do you think he could tag along with you on Thanksgiving? He doesn’t really have anywhere else to go.”_ _

__Melia pauses, and Noel can all but read her thoughts in her eyes-- a stark sympathy for a proud but lonely and misunderstood prodigy who hides his vulnerability behind a thick cloak of restless intellectual brilliance. A hopeless anger at the parents who’d waste years and years of time, neglectful and oblivious to their child’s gifts and needs. “Yeah. Okay.”_ _

__**_ _

__November 22nd, 7am_ _

__Shane’s thirty-six measures into the second movement of his piano composition final piece, wrestling with a tricky key signature change in the bridge, when the sound of the door buzzer almost causes him to jump straight out of his skin. Saving his work hastily in the program, he makes his way to the door. It takes a moment, after a bewildered glance through the peephole, to remember._ _

__Noel’s girlfriend-- Annette’s roommate-- is wearing her Starbucks apron over a rose-pink long-sleeved shirt and comfortable-looking jeans, a baseball cap in the school’s colours perched jauntily over her curly hair. Whereas he’d been up for an unknown number of hours, fueled on inspiration and the memory of his last conversation with Annette-- over a chessboard, before she’d hopped on a plane to her mother’s home-- Melia looks bright eyed and bushy tailed, despite the early hour. “Did you forget that I was coming?” she asks genially as he pulls the door open. “Here, it’s okay. I brought you coffee.”_ _

__It’s a Venti iced Americano with seven pumps of classic syrup-- the same as he generally orders-- and he’s taken aback by her thoughtfulness. “Thanks.”_ _

__“Noel was afraid you’d have your headphones on, and wouldn’t hear the door. He actually gave me a spare key just in case, but I thought I’d try my luck and do the polite thing first. Whatever you were playing sounds pretty awesome, by the way. Awesome and complicated. But for both our sakes, I’m glad you weren’t wearing headphones.”_ _

__“There’s no one around, ergo, no one to piss off,” Shane remarks over a large gulp of coffee. “Not that Noel’s the easily-riled-up sort in particular, but there’s literally like no one else in the building.” He gives Melia a cautious once-over, then glances down at himself. His jeans are frayed at the hems and white at the stress points, and the ancient Vans Warped Tour t-shirt he has on is faded from innumerable washings. “Do I have to change, or whatever?”_ _

__“No, not really.” Melia cocks an eyebrow. “We’re going to a homeless shelter, Good Will Hunting. They’re really gonna care more about getting in a hot meal rather than a hot piece of ass. Though… do you have anything to tie back that gorgeous Jared Leto mane? Just because, kitchen, food-service, you know. Dude, why is it that boys always have the best hair and eyelashes without even trying?”_ _

__Shane rolls his eyes and digs a hair tie out of a drawer before shrugging on a hoodie and following Melia out of the flat._ _

__**_ _

__November 22nd, 5pm_ _

__Thanksgiving dinner as prepared for the average family unit seems daunting enough, but making that sort of spread on the industrial scale of Our Lady of Serenity shelter was on a whole different level altogether. Melia took charge of a half-dozen culinary arts students, as well as himself, and managed to put together a feast to feed the dozens of indigent street people who’d come in that night._ _

__Shane had always prided himself on having clever, skillful hands, but after some hours of snapping green beans and running flour and shortening through some industrial monster machine that transformed it into pastry crust with a roar of whirring motors, he’s definitely gained a brand new respect for food-service workers. Serving the food is a bit easier; he carefully arranges a portion of everything made-- roast turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, stuffing and pumpkin pie-- onto the sectioned plates, and hands them out to each person. Some are old, with gnarled hands and wizened faces. Others are young, occasionally with glints of not-completely-extinguished youthful bravado still visible in their darting eyes. And some are just children, quieter and more somber than anyone so small should ever be, occasionally wearing coats or shoes that are just a tad too small. One little boy, a ragged sunflower corolla of dirty blond hair surrounding his little face, goes up for seconds. Shane gives him a full second plate and an extra slice of pie._ _

__“Thank you Mister… Shine.” Like everyone else there, Shane had been given an adhesive paper name-tag, and now the boy squints and struggles to read his name. “This is the best dinner ever.”_ _

__“You’re welcome. What’s your name?”_ _

__“Cody.”_ _

__“I’m Shane.” He has no idea what to do with a little kid, really, and awkwardly holds out his hand, wondering if Cody would shake it. The boy gives him a high-five instead, and Shane chuckles, relaxes slightly. “How old are you?”_ _

__“Six and a half. We had no school today. I like school. It’s warm in there.”_ _

__That simple statement is starkly sad in its matter-of-fact simplicity, but to dwell on it wouldn’t do. “I like school, too. What’s your favorite class?”_ _

__“RECESS! And music. I played the triangle last week.”_ _

__“I like music class, too. I play the piano.”_ _

__The conversation continues in that vein, and no one seems to care, or notice, that he’s a socially awkward prodigy who had to learn, just a few hours ago, how to snap green beans. Cody somehow ends up cajoling him into the shelter’s Common Room, where an ancient, rickety, dung-coloured Suzuki sat huddled up to the wall. The instrument would have been of cheap and inferior quality straight out the factory, and certainly its tenure at this place had done it no favours, but Shane obediently sits down on the too-low armchair that someone had placed in front of the instrument in lieu of a proper stool, and plays._ _

__The _Nutcracker Suite_ by Tchaikovsky is meant for orchestra-- the quintessential Christmastime ballet-- but he manages to run through it from memory, from the Miniature Overture through the Waltz of the Flowers. Several of the keys stick, and the instrument is twangy and badly out of tune. But gradually, more and more of the shelter’s denizens drift in, lured by the music. _ _

__Shane finishes the last bars of the waltz, and looks up, a bit startled, to applause from the crowd that had gathered. Lingering at the door, smiling, is Melia, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a stunning blonde whom he vaguely remembers as one of the student speakers for Winter Commencement. It’s the blonde who breaks the spell, beaming a megawatt smile like an A-list starlet on the red carpet._ _

__“That’s your boyfriend’s roommate, Lia? He’s good! I remember him from the piano bar, but this is even better! Hey, you wouldn’t mind me recording this and putting it on youtube, would you? I would totally give credit. You may very well go viral. I am going to shamelessly admit that I love Christmas music. The cheesier the better. Literally the only song I don’t like is the creepy rapey ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’, so play whatever else you want aside from that!”_ _

__Shane, half-bemusedly, ends up playing some mishmash of a myriad requests-- 'Jingle Bells' bleeding into 'Silent Night' bleeding into 'Joy To The World' bleeding into 'All I Want For Christmas Is You'. It’s full dark outside and he is pleasantly full and exhausted by the time him and Melia drive back to campus._ _

__“I’d heard that you were good, but you’re really, REALLY good,” Melia says casually once they pull in front of his flat. “I should’ve known that Annette’s not one to exaggerate, and she said that you were brilliant.”_ _

__Shane stares at her, quite certain that his face is turning red and white by turns, but in his tired state, perhaps his defenses are down, too. “Annette’s the brilliant one, really.” His left thumb and forefinger fiddle with a loose thread at the knee of his jeans. “I’m just a hack musician working on a math degree. She’s… special.”_ _

__Melia gives him a soft, approving sort of smile, but waits for a few seconds before she speaks. “Can you do something for me?”_ _

__“Hmm? Oh, sure?” Noel’s girlfriend is precisely that combination of down-to-earth and gracious, competent and kind that makes her the perfect woman for Noel, and surely, whatever she’d asked would be worth his while._ _

__“Tell Annette that. Someday. In a way that means something, that she’d understand. Being thought of as just another smart girl is all she’s ever known, I think. Nothing special.”_ _

__That thought steels Shane’s resolve, and out of nowhere at all, the next six bars of his composition play in his head, easy and almost effortless. “Okay.” He steps out of the car and walks quickly towards the door. “I’m working on it,” he says, almost to himself. “Good night, Lia. Happy Thanksgiving.”_ _

__“Happy Thanksgiving, Shane.”_ _

__He’s already deeply immersed in the music by the time she pulls off._ _

__**_ _

__November 22nd, 12pm_ _

__Jordan’s car pulls up to her building at exactly noon on Thanksgiving Day, and Rebecca comes outside before he can really do much more than park and step out. “You’re exactly on time,” she says hurriedly, giving him a quick once-over. “You dressed up.”_ _

__“I have a vague idea of who your people are, Becky,” Jordan chuckles. It’s a simple but classic look: black suit jacket and trousers, stark white shirt, and an iron-grey tie with a thread of blue in it that brings out his eyes. “Plus, I knew you’d look just beautiful. Surely, I had to at least make a token effort to match.” His eyes take in the black sheath dress underneath her cashmere coat and warm to the colour of summer skies. “Beautiful’s probably not even the word.”_ _

__“Thanks,” she mumbles, then out of nothing more than nerves, reaches up to straighten his tie. “So. It’s about an hour drive. Traffic depending.” Underneath her nervous fingertips, his heartbeat is steady as the ticking of a watch hand. “Most of it’s freeway, so, hopefully, it won’t be too bad of a drive for you. We could have caught an Uber, though.”_ _

__He raises an eyebrow, then opens the door for her, but before she can sit down, moves a bouquet of stark-white lilies into the backseat. Rebecca can smell their sweetness lingering in the air, and focuses on them rather than the ordeal ahead. “Nice flowers.”_ _

__“I figured that for mooching a meal off of strangers, I should bring a hostess gift of some kind,” Jordan says evenly as he enters the address into the GPS and puts the car in reverse. “Of course, in a roundabout sort of way, I suppose that means that the flowers are for you. You would be the Lady of the House, wouldn’t you?”_ _

__“I suppose.” Rebecca sneaks another glance at the flowers, still in their tissue and cellophane wrapping in the backseat of the car, with delicate red anthers and silvery green leaves. “They’re beautiful. Different.”_ _

__“My mom always had white flowers around the house-- wherever we lived,” Jordan says as the car makes its way up the entrance ramp to the interstate. “But like I said before, wedding photographer. She’d get a lot of leftover centerpieces and the like, and as you could imagine, most were overwhelmingly composed of white flowers. Besides,” he glances at her for just a second before merging into the flow of traffic, “You don’t seem to be a red roses kind of girl. Thoughtless, sort of overly romanticized.”_ _

__She had never been a huge fan of red roses, but she didn’t think that analyzing how he’d figured that out would do anything good for her thrumming nerves, so instead, Rebecca chooses to focus on the other part of his statement. “Does your mom still do it, the wedding photography, I mean?”_ _

__“Part-time. She picks and chooses the gigs these days. Dad’s retired, and the Navy took pretty good care of him. Now that I’m out of their hair, so to speak, they spend most of their free time traveling. I guess settling down was just never for them. That’s why they’re off to Tahiti for the holiday-- mom’s looking to try some fancy underwater nature photography or the like. I think she thinks she’s going to be featured on National Geographic someday.”_ _

__“Well, who knows?” It’s definitely easier to talk about Jordan than herself, since he is so relaxed about it. “Do you have any brothers and sisters?”_ _

__“Nope. Only child. My parents had me kind of late. Most of my cousins, Hayley included, are a few years older, and they did their share of pranks in our collective misspent youth. There’s an infamous incident when I was about kindergarten age where they supposedly convinced me that if I wore a bedsheet as a cape and jumped out of the treehouse, I could fly like Superman. Come to think of it, I probably would not have survived to adulthood had I had actual siblings who lived in the same household and could engage in such shenanigans on a daily basis instead of just every so often when they visited.”_ _

__“How did you end up deciding to go to school here, then? Since you moved around a lot as a kid.”_ _

__“Oh, easy enough. It’s my mom’s alma mater. She really liked it here when she went, and I thought it was a really nice campus when I toured. We were living in Texas at the time, and the fact that the weather wasn’t, y’know, a millionty-two degrees with 90% humidity was a huge plus, lame though that sounds.”_ _

__Rebecca peers out the window, where the last valiant sugar-brown and vivid-red leaves of autumn cling to the black branches of the trees lining the road. It’s almost too cold to be wearing a dress, though there’s still no snow. Soon, Jordan’s Starbucks would be decked out for the holidays. “You don’t sound much like a Texan.”_ _

__“I reckon that I don’t, but all y’all wouldn’t take me seriously if I did,” Jordan drawls teasingly, and she lets out a giggle before she can stop herself._ _

__He seems content to share anecdotes about himself, and the places he’d been and his own experiences on campus, and by the time they reach her father’s house, she’s almost relaxed. At least until they pull up to the house, and Jordan’s generic Chevy sedan-- fairly standard in the setting of college campus and college town-- stands out like a sore thumb in the black battalion of BMWs and Range Rovers and Jaguars already parked. But he doesn’t seem to notice, and pulls open her door like a perfect gentleman, handing her the flowers from the backseat. Rebecca lays one hand on the crook of his arm as the other clenches around tissue-wrapped lily stems and takes a deep breath to steady herself, then glances up in a bit of surprise when she feels him lay warm, strong fingers over hers._ _

__“Hey. Relax. They’re not going to bite.”_ _

__“They’re assholes, and will probably be particularly assholish towards you.”_ _

__“I’ll be fine.” Somehow, his fingers end up wound around hers, and so by the time they reach the actual door, they’re holding hands. Jordan reaches up with his free hand towards the doorbell, but the door swings open before he can press it, revealing a diminutive woman in a neat black dress who looks up at them with beady black eyes._ _

__“Phoebe! Oh, it’s good to see you.” Rebecca lets go of Jordan’s hand and envelopes the tiny woman in a hug._ _

__“Good to see you too, Miss Rebecca. Now, introduce me to your young man.” The birdlike gaze lands on Jordan as the woman draws herself to her full height-- all of maybe five-foot-one. “You have never brought anyone home for Thanksgiving before.”_ _

__“Well, I-- it was sort of a spur-of-the-moment thing, really.” Rebecca mumbles, then glances out of the corner of her eye at Jordan. “Jordan, this is Phoebe Damiani, who’s officially the housekeeper but more to the point, the one who raised me. Phoebe, this is Jordan Lee. We-- we’re sort of colleagues. And met on campus.”_ _

__“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Damiani.” Jordan shakes Phoebe’s hand and gifts her with his incomparable smile. “Happy Thanksgiving.”_ _

__Phoebe stares at him for a few moments, then glances at the flowers still clutched in Rebecca’s hands. “You’ll do, I suppose,” she pronounces after a beat. “Let me put those in water and take your coats. Your father’s in the Gold Ballroom, having cocktails with the others.”_ _

__She clears out then, disappearing behind a door without another word, their coats and the lilies in tow. Rebecca glances up at Jordan’s face, which, for some unfathomable reason, still seems supremely unconcerned with the impending interrogation. “We don’t have to stay long.”_ _

__“Whatever you wish.” He touches her cheek, almost absently, and she almost resents him for the fact that the casual touch gives her a nervous jitter when he’d not visibly reacted at all earlier when she’d adjusted his tie. But before she can reply, there’s the sound of footsteps-- Ferragamo wingtips and Jimmy Choo slingbacks-- on the marble floor tiles. Rebecca tenses; she knows who it is even before the person speaks._ _

__“I thought I heard you talking to the help, Rebecca.” Kaden Rothschild’s voice is cool and cultured, with a faint, affected prep school accent. “I didn’t know you’d be bringing a guest.”_ _

__“You don’t know a lot of things about me,” Rebecca’s back straightens and she slowly turns to face him. “I wasn’t aware that I had to report all my daily comings and goings to you, either.”_ _

__“Surely we can be cordial, for the family holiday?” Kaden gestures his companion, whose dress is a confection all but dripping in beadwork and Swarovski crystals, wearing a diamond pendant on her neck the size of a bottle-cap. “My fiancée, Mitzy. Darling, this is Thomas’ daughter, Rebecca. And you are…?” Watery pale blue eyes turn towards Jordan._ _

__“Jordan Lee. Rebecca’s interning at Tanner and Associates, who happens to be my oldest PR client. You can say we’ve become friends, of a fashion.”_ _

__Kaden has apparently heard of his work; Rebecca can see the infinitesimal look of surprise in his familiar face, though he doesn’t evince any other sign of it. “I see.” His voice remains cool and devoid of inflection. “We should join the others before we’re missed.”_ _

__If Kaden has any idea of the sneer Rebecca aims at his back as they walk down the hallway towards the Gold Ballroom, he doesn’t show any sign of it, letting his fiancée cling to his arm as she minces forward on her heavily be-jeweled shoes. Jordan grins, though, even as he gives her hand a squeeze._ _

__**_ _

__November 22nd, 2pm_ _

__The Gold Ballroom-- enormous, lavish, just toeing the line between elegant and crass-- has a smattering of people milling about, and a well-appointed wet bar in one corner, manned by a black-clad caterer. Other caterers walk silently through the room, bearing trays of canapes. Rebecca spots her father in the center of the room, a still-handsome man with iron-gray hair holding court amidst a few of his colleagues, and squares her shoulders before leading Jordan in that direction._ _

__“Thomas, I’ve found your wayward daughter,” Kaden reaches him before she does, though, and she has to clench her teeth over what she wants to say. “She seems to have brought one of her little friends.”_ _

__“Dad.” Rebecca steps forward, letting go of Jordan’s hand to give him a brief, decorous hug and kiss on the cheek. “Happy Thanksgiving.”_ _

__Thomas Hewitt returns the hug somewhat awkwardly, but takes his time to let go, his fingers lingering on his daughter’s shoulders for a moment. “You’re looking well, Rebecca. Taking care of yourself at school?”_ _

__“Of course.” It’s an exchange by rote, stilted and a bit over-formal, but she’s used to it by now. At least with the presence of Jordan, she can vary it up a little. “I brought a friend. Hope that’s okay.”_ _

__“Of course.” Thomas Hewitt draws himself up to his full height, and when his eyes meet Jordan’s, the latter realizes that while their eye colours are different-- heather-bloom violet rather than slate gray, Rebecca has inherited that piercing stare from her father. The man holds out a hand politely, however. “Thomas Hewitt. And you are…?”_ _

__“Jordan Lee.” Her father has a firm handshake, and sizes him up the way any man with a beautiful, fascinating daughter must size up a boy she brings home. Oddly, it’s comforting to know that the man at least cares that much. “Rebecca has become a good friend of mine.”_ _

__“You go to school with her, I take it?”_ _

__“Sort of,” Jordan smiles faintly, stepping back to Rebecca’s side. “I’m in grad school right now, working on my MBA. It’s a big campus, but I’m glad to have made her acquaintance this year.”_ _

__“He’s behind the PR campaign for Tanner and Associates, two years ago,” Kaden pipes up, and the faintly supercilious tone of his voice doesn’t go unnoticed. However, much to Jordan’s gratification, the condescension doesn’t go quite as the other man has anticipated when one of Thomas Hewitt’s friends straightens._ _

__“You’re THAT Jordan Lee?” The man holds out a hand with a diamond pinky ring. “Stephen Trent-Driscoll. I’m a partner at Trent Holdings. I believe I remember sending you quite an attractive job offer.”_ _

__“I remember,” Jordan shakes the man’s hand, then smiles apologetically. “I already had a job lined up at that point, but I definitely appreciated the offer.”_ _

__“I’m sure we can still work something out if you’re interested,” Stephen Trent-Driscoll steeples his fingers together not unlike a villain out of a James Bond movie and peers at Jordan. “We’re one of the biggest and most profitable names in the finance sector. Here, I’ll give you my card. We can meet for drinks, talk about it.” He slips Jordan an embossed business card out of a monogrammed wallet. “Say, do you want anything to drink now? Tommy only stocks the good stuff, and it’s an open bar.”_ _

__“Water will be fine,” Jordan returns evenly, tucking the business card into a pocket. “I’m going to be driving Rebecca home later, so…”_ _

__They end up fetching a Perrier for him and a glass of Domaine Fourrier Griotte Chambertin 2007 for Rebecca. Stephen Trent-Driscoll herds a languid Barbie doll lookalike in an elaborate purple cocktail dress over. “My wife is dying to meet both of you. Melanie, this is Tommy’s little girl, and her companion, Jordan Lee.”_ _

__Melanie’s handshake is as languid as she looks, and she looks like she has absolutely no interest in meeting them, despite Stephen’s words, though she coos over Rebecca’s dress for a moment. “Black simply washes me all the way out, but it’s so flattering on you, my dear.”_ _

__“Thanks,” Rebecca takes a rather large gulp of wine. “I’m glad you think so. Some other people are of the opinion that, being a young lady and all, I should be wearing more white.” At the hint of derision in her tone, Jordan can guess who that person might be._ _

__“Oh, pish. This is hardly a southern debutante cotillion. Do they see the Kardashians wearing white everywhere?”_ _

__The conversation drifts, probing yet mundane, dull and patronizing by turns. Several of Thomas’ colleagues wander over to meet them, exchanging pleasantries with Rebecca that include, at some points, two-cheek air kisses. She finishes her wine and asks for another._ _

__“So, which lucky firm is it that you do work for?”_ _

__The question comes from Brayden Kearney, the other half of Hewitt and Kearney, and it’s directed at Jordan, but oddly enough, it’s Kaden who steps forward and replies._ _

__“Mr. Lee seems to split his time between working for his cousin, Hayley Tanner, and in entry level retail.” Kaden has his phone out and looks to be scrolling through it, and next to Jordan’s side, Rebecca stiffens, her knuckles white as her hand clenches on the stem of the wine glass. They can practically hear the smirk in Kaden’s voice. “It’s a shame, Steve. He could have been working for you, or at least somewhere… respectable.”_ _

__“I beg to differ,” Jordan turns to face the slightly older man squarely. The air is so silent all of the sudden that he can hear one of the caterers scrape leftover toothpicks and garnishes off a plate into an unseen trash can. “I still work at my cousin’s firm because they gave me the chance to begin with. I’m quite sure no one here would even have heard of me, otherwise. Loyalty’s not the most fashionable commodity these days, but it still counts for something in the long run. As for the charge of ‘entry level retail’, I plead guilty.” He grins at all assembled, toasts them with his water. “Part-time barista at the campus Starbucks, worked there since freshman year. One of the most useful experiences of my life, I should say, in terms of future career and all that. What’s PR but customer service on a larger, collective scale? I wouldn’t have been nearly as successful as the ad campaign for Tanner and Associates had I not gotten a good idea, through learning first-hand, of what people want and what makes them tick.”_ _

__The assembled party-goers don’t seem to have a response to this, and surprisingly, it’s Thomas Hewitt who breaks the moment of awkward silence. “I thought we were going to leave phones and work behind for tonight, Kaden,” he says genially, but his eyes are flinty as they gaze at his assistant. “It’s Thanksgiving. And since Phoebe just walked in, it’s safe to assume that dinner is served.”_ _

__They make their collective way towards the dining room, and in the momentary pause at the door as the guests find their seats, Jordan sees Rebecca, face devoid of expression, dig the pointy red end of her stiletto heel with cool deliberation into Kaden’s instep. He yelps and stumbles. She doesn’t even look back at him._ _

__Dinner is a formal affair, the type with a different fork for each course and heavy china and stemware. Even the mashed potatoes are formed into perfect quenelles on the plates, each topped with a smattering of parmesan curls and completely uniformly minced chives. The turkey is presented as a glistening golden whole on an oversized platter garnished with curly kale leaves and quartered lemons, then whisked off to some unseen quarter. When it next appears, it’s in the form of expertly even slices plated up with a serving of stuffing molded into the shape of an autumnal maple leaf. Each plate has its own miniature tureen of gravy and cranberry sauce that definitely did not come from a can. The pumpkin pie for dessert is served with espresso and a perfect tiny sphere of vanilla ice cream on the side._ _

__After the meal, the guests return to the Gold Ballroom, where a musical quartet is now playing in the corner. It’s something jazzy, suitable for dancing, and when Jordan holds a hand out to Rebecca, she doesn’t hesitate at all. Maybe that little scene earlier helped to clear out some of the tension, because her fingers are now cool and steady in his. In her stilettos, the top of her head still only comes up to his mouth, but her hair is silky smooth against his cheek and she smells like wine and a faint whiff of incense-y, expensive perfume, and they fit together perfectly._ _

__“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her words a puff of breath against his collar. “I told you, they’re assholes.”_ _

__“It’s okay.” Her dress dips low in the back and his hand caresses warm, smooth skin. “I’m pretty sure they can’t break me.”_ _

__“Kaden was being particularly assholish. Ugh.” Rebecca’s hand clenches on his shoulder for just a moment before she relaxes it. “I don’t even know why he did that. He doesn’t actually care about me, and he’s not family.”_ _

__“I have an idea, but, speak of the devil, he’s coming this way. Maybe you can ask.”_ _

__“May I cut in?” Kaden has reached them at that moment, and though Rebecca would like nothing better than to slap the pompous look off his handsome face, Jordan’s already stepping back, relinquishing his own hold on her. It would give him more satisfaction to know that he’d affected him, after all. Setting her teeth, Rebecca glances down at the proffered hand, with its expensive diamond cufflinks, and sets her own fingers gingerly on top of them like one might touch a dead fish._ _

__Kaden wastes no time at all. Not two bars into the next song, he frowns down at Rebecca. “I’m sure you have made all types of friends, from all walks of life, down on that campus, Rebecca. But is it truly wise to bring just anyone home? For a family holiday?”_ _

__“Funny. I didn’t know you were family,” Rebecca bares her teeth, though she keeps her voice syrupy sweet. “I’m hardly your concern, Kaden. You have a wedding to plan and a nasty alimony case pending, don’t you?”_ _

__“It’s not becoming to resort to low blows and tactics. I would have expected better of you.”_ _

__“Oh, then what was the point of you mocking Jordan in front of everyone? Don’t dish what you can’t take.” Rebecca glares up at him. “I would have figured, as long as you’ve been hovering hereabouts, hanging on my dad’s coattails, you would have learned that by now.”_ _

__“You’ve changed. Quite a bit, from what I recall. Last year, you were quite a bit quieter. More decorous.”_ _

__“I can talk as much or as little as I please. Isn’t that one of the best perks of being a lawyer? Using your words to great effect for whatever cause you choose to espouse? I’m sorry that mine’s so divergent from yours. On second thought, no, I’m not.” The song switches to a minor key in its bridge, and it’s as though the notes echo her own tension. “I’m not that silly little girl you can pat on the head and lie to and tell me that everything’s okay anymore. I know it’s not, not always, but you know what? I also know that I can handle it. Without your help or input. You seem to have a perfectly biddable, borderline mindless girlfriend in Mitzy. Do us both a favour and focus your energies on telling her what to do instead.”_ _

__The tempo slows, signalling an end to the song, and Rebecca makes a point to step viciously on his foot again before stepping back. “Nice chat. I’m so thankful we had it.”_ _

__She doesn’t wait for the song to end completely, and stalks off away from him. She catches sight of Jordan standing off to the side, talking to her father, and as though he senses her gaze on him, he turns to meet it, and slowly smiles, and she feels something flutter in her chest like a skipped heartbeat._ _

__“Hey,” Jordan reaches over and takes her hand. “I was just telling your dad that we might have to make a slightly early night of it, unfortunately. I offered to switch shifts with Melia so she won’t have to get up at three in the morning after cooking a gigantic spread.”_ _

__She smiles back at him, then turns to her father, sobering. “No embarrassing stories about me, hopefully?”_ _

__Thomas looks at her for a long moment, and then maybe it’s just a trick of the light, but his eyes-- so sharp and sharklike, usually-- seem to shine with unshed tears. “No. I almost wish I had a few. It’d be… better.”_ _

__There’s a world of unspoken plea and apology in that pause before the last word. Rebecca remembers a sterile hospital room, the machines beeping dreadfully as they dripped fluids into her mother’s bare, waxen arm and kept Cassandra Hewitt alive for as long as possible in those final days. She remembers Kaden buying her a Snickers bar and a can of Sprite from the hospital vending machine, patting her on the head, making excuses for her father’s absence. And she remembers when her father finally appeared, after the nurse had pulled the sheet over her mother’s face. He’d still worn the suit he’d worn to work that day. There’d been dark circles under his eyes and the first hint of silver at his temples. She’d cried and screamed at him that he’d not been there, not when both Mama and her needed him to be, and he’d flinched, turned away, and all she could see any more were his hands, shaking and ink-stained, a splash of coffee, pale brown on a white shirt cuff. It had been the only time, ever in her memory, that he’d looked less than perfectly groomed, and now, for some odd reason, she remembers it and it all makes sense._ _

__Rebecca takes a deep breath, takes a chance, and steps forward, holding out her arms. “Thank you for having us, Dad.”_ _

__The hug he gives her is as shaky as those hands, all those years ago, but longer and tighter than she’d felt in more than a decade. “Thank you for being here, Becky.”_ _

__He’d never called her Becky before. She wonders if Jordan had let it slip._ _

__**_ _

__November 22nd, 8pm_ _

__The car ride back to campus is a lot less tense than the car ride there. Phoebe had put the lilies that Jordan had brought into a gorgeous Waterford vase on an art deco stand in the foyer, but she’d handed Rebecca an individual bloom, so that she’d be able to have it in her room on campus. Rebecca keeps it in her lap, finger gently running over the wide white petals, as Jordan drives through the mostly-deserted streets._ _

__She doesn’t ask him questions to fill the tense silence now, but instead, she tells him everything. Her mother, discovering the cancer too late for anything to be done, dead before she’d reached age forty and leaving behind a twelve-year-old daughter. The fraught relationship with her father. The lingering hostility towards Kaden, who always made a point to give her a birthday present every year and try to tell her how to live her life. The present was the same every year-- a gift basket from Bath and Body Works filled with vanilla-scented lotions and potions, along with a teddy bear. She’d volunteered through high school at the women’s shelter in the city where her mother had often made rounds, as a social worker, and every April 18th, she’d donate that gift to someone who’d needed it there._ _

__When they arrive at her building, the parking lot is deserted, and he pulls the car practically right to the door. There’s a hint of frost on the ground, and she’s wearing heels, and she appreciates the thoughtfulness. He opens her door and walks with her, ascending the steps of the building._ _

__“I hope you didn’t hate every single minute of it,” Rebecca ventures as she digs into her purse for the keys._ _

__“I enjoyed myself. Really.” Jordan reaches up, and cups her face in his warm fingers. “And all in all, the grilling wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been, Becky. We both know this.”_ _

__“Kaden’s a spiteful, hateful prick.” Even the mention of his name has her scowling._ _

__“Perhaps, but I can’t completely hate him for it.” He toys with a strand of her hair, making no movement to step either closer or away, and the air between them thickens. “You liked him, once upon a time. Listened to him. He had your attention and, in a way, your faith, your love. He knows he doesn’t have it any more, and that’s a devastating loss.”_ _

__That fluttering feeling is back, and it lingers for more than just a split second. Rebecca clears her throat as she comes to a quick decision. “Jordan?”_ _

__“Yes, Becky?”_ _

__His hands linger on her face, and she wraps her own fingers around his wrist, leans forward that necessary few inches. The kiss she presses to his mouth is brief, almost chaste, and she pulls back before he can respond, taking the decision of it away from him so that he can’t break her heart in a way that no one-- not her father, not Kaden-- had ever been able to do so before._ _

__“Thanks.” She takes a hasty step back, sticking the correct key into the lock, but he grabs her wrist before she can turn it. Then he leans down, moves in, and the kiss he gives her is as soft and warm and slow and devastating as his smile. Her purse falls to the ground with a soft thud as his arm wraps around her waist, but she manages to keep a hold of the single lily stem._ _

__**_ _

__November 23rd, 8pm_ _

__The house that he’d grown up in is stately red brick with charcoal grey shutters, its facade interspaced with stark white columns and flanked by neatly trimmed, dark green hedges that, by Christmastime, would be flecked with snow and studded with cardinal-red berries. Dinner that night is Thanksgiving leftovers, of course, and Cameron had fixed himself a turkey and brie sandwich an hour ago before retreating upstairs to his old childhood bedroom. It had not changed over-much since he’d left it ten years ago to go to college; from the first-generation iPod-- still clean white, wrapped in its cords-- lying on the desk to his old soccer jersey still hanging up in the closet. There’s no chance of attempting to make the ancient desktop computer on the desk even turn on, let alone function in any real capacity, so instead, he’s sitting on the counterpane of an almost-too-small twin bed scrolling through his brand-new iPhone._ _

__It had been a present from his colleagues at the State Attorney’s office, where his well-past-its-prime cell phone had been the subject of many jokes throughout the years, mostly from Robin. It wasn’t so much that he was opposed to new technology, he’d used to tell her. More that it wasn’t completely necessary and he just never bothered._ _

__Now, even while his parents were hauling out all the Christmas decorations already as though on a mission to minimize the lull between the two major holidays as much as possible, he finds himself scrolling through Instagram, of all things._ _

__Maralynn Avery’s Instagram, specifically._ _

__He has to hand it to her: the pictures are meticulously arranged and curated, the colours brilliant and complementary. The outfits that she wears for her innumerable selfies seem planned to the point that their colours are as organized as a paint chip. There’s been a slew of recent activity-- she’d mentioned spending Thanksgiving at the homeless shelter downtown as well as her plans to shop as many places as she could get to on Black Friday._ _

__She has a lot of shots taken at the shelter-- at turns heartwarming and stark. The tattered, grease-stained, too-small winter boots of an underprivileged child. Gnarled hands holding a steaming plate of food. A cramped but neat dormitory of beds, all perfectly made. There’s even a side-feature of one of the volunteers that evening, apparently a music student at the university, giving an impromptu concert in the shelter’s activity room on a battered old piano. She has all the relevant information on there: links for giving donations, or volunteering one’s time, and even an Amazon gift card giveaway if the shelter’s holiday season drive attains a certain goal._ _

__There are a lot more shots taken that very day, as Maralynn treks her way from store to store, trying out countless different outfits and accessories, giving her thoughts and opinions on a myriad popular presents for the upcoming holiday shopping season. Throughout it all, even though she must have been up and about for a good twelve hours on her feet, she remains charming, approachable, cheeky and good-humoured. She tries on a dress that is a bit too big on her and giggles when its straps slip off her smooth shoulders, her mouth open on a laugh, painted candy-apple red, and he’s sure it was never her intention for that shot to be seductive. But he can all but feel the warm silky-softness of her skin, smell the scent of flowery perfume that always seems to permeate her hair. He catches himself wondering if that wide, laughing mouth tastes like the overly-sugared-and-spiced coffee she’s always drinking, and abruptly clicks off the app in an effort to get a grip on his wayward thoughts. Really, they’re friendly acquaintances, at best. Perhaps friendly acquaintances who share coffee and meals once in a while, but he certainly has no business… objectifying her._ _

__Downstairs, he can hear his parents arguing good-naturedly over the Christmas decorations, and it’s a yearly ritual that he prefers to avoid like the plague. His mother wants all white-- a clean, elegant look-- while his father prefers colour, citing the fact that he could just go out during a snowstorm if he wanted all white. It’s petty and insignificant and there is love behind the bickering words, hints of fun and affection and a wry sort of enjoyment in each other’s differences._ _

__Much like a different argument, all those months ago when he first ran into an enchanting blonde hoyden at a coffee shop at dawn. Black coffee, or something topped with whipped cream and caramel drizzle and sugar and spice._ _


	4. The Month Of December

December 1st, 3am

“You forgot to bring a coat? What do you mean, you forgot to bring a coat? It’s December now, buddy. Did you not get that memo?”

Shane’s only response to Noel’s question is a glare, and he stuffs his cold hands into his pockets and picks up his pace. Even so, the distance between Coda and their flat is a good several blocks. Noel had not taken his car that day, either, planning on an early-morning jog before heading over to Melia’s much-closer apartment. But now, he looks askance at the shivering blonde. “Do you want to borrow my coat? It’s going to be big on you, but…”

“Hell, no. I’m not your girlfriend, who’d look cute in that get-up. I’d just look retarded.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sakes…” Noel rolls his eyes. “Melia looks cute in everything, so your point is moot. Let’s go to Starbucks, get you something hot to drink, at least.”

They walk in, and though Melia was not scheduled to work at the time, Jordan takes one look at Shane and fixes him a mocha, extra hot, without any additional comment. Shane grunts out a word of thanks and pays, then hunches down in his seat, gulping down half the drink in seconds. Noel takes a seat across from him and stares at his friend quizzically. 

“So how did you manage to forget your coat?”

Shane mumbles something under his breath, and when Noel leans forward to hear him better, actually growls. “Was up for the last three days, then crashed. Overslept. Was about to be late. Ran out the door all the way there. Wasn’t cold then.”

“O--kay. I know you must be tired if you’re talking in incomplete sentences. You know, you don’t technically have to graduate this term. Most people graduate at the end of the second term. If you’re overworking yourself…”

“I’m almost done. It’s the last stretch now.” Shane’s hands wrap around the hot coffee cup and his green eyes meet Noel’s darker ones. “Everything is going right, for once. I have yet to really discuss my comp final with the professor, but then again, she just got engaged. The boring technicalities of writing a solo concerto for piano are probably the least of her worries right now.”

“That wouldn’t have stopped you before,” Noel observes. It’s not spoken cruelly, but in a matter-of-fact way. The Shane of freshman year would not have given a damn about inconveniencing anyone, and even the Shane of the start of the term would probably only have made the most perfunctory of efforts to accommodate the wishes and inclinations of a professor whom, he would likely have said, was getting paid hefty tuition fees to teach and mentor the likes of him. 

“Yeah, but this isn’t about me. It’s a labor of love, just as she said it would be.” Shane finishes the mocha, then tosses the paper cup into the trash can and turns to face Noel. “I didn’t choose my double-major because I loved music and math. At least, not really.”

“Oh?” Noel had always read between the lines and figured that Shane had chosen those two divergent and impractical fields in an act of defiance. “What was your reasoning, then?”

“I was good at them, and I knew it. I was in Calculus with the seniors at age 13. I could read the patterns like they’re words. My sight-reading skills in music are phenomenal, and the more my parents sort of hated it, the more work and practice I was willing to put into piano. I knew I could always work for the family company later, if it came down to it. And so I never worried about getting a job, not really. Worse comes to worst, I could go do books for my dad and know damn well that I’m ten times smarter than every last one of the goons he’s got in that dealership. The work would be child’s play for me, too.”

“Sure,” Noel says slowly. “I mean, I personally think it’s a crappy way to live, and wouldn’t do it if I were you, but no, you wouldn’t starve.”

“But everything’s different, now.” Shane’s words are energetic and his hands twitch with barely-repressed activity, but there are dark circles underneath his eyes, a vivid contrast to the pallor of his skin. “I’m in over my head with this. This is maybe the biggest risk I’ve ever taken, the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. And yet, it’s like everything has fallen into place, come all the way alive.”

Noel knows full well that Shane is referring to far more than just his music, and recalls that morning when Annette had fallen asleep at their place. The start of this epoch of frenetic activity and inspiration. Noel had given him his friendship those years ago because Shane had needed it. But now, Shane would befriend others-- Annette, or a little boy at the homeless shelter on Thanksgiving-- because they’d needed him, or wanted him, and he was willing to share himself with them in return. Looking back, he couldn’t be more proud of his friend.

Although… Noel stands, rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. “Ready to brave the long, cold hike ahead? No coat, for Pete’s sake. You take SO much looking after.”

“Bite me.” Shane steps up to the counter, orders another mocha to go, and then heads for the door. “Go do whatever you planned on doing for the day, Noel. Especially if it includes Melia.”

“I’ll tell her you said that and let her beat you down with a cast-iron skillet.” But Noel has a smile on his face as he watches his friend jog down the street.

**

December 7th, 4pm

Maralynn makes a beeline for her favourite table at Starbucks and sighs happily at her festively-decorated surroundings even as she settles into her seat and pulls out her bookbag. Reaching in, she extracts a fistful of glittery gel pens, then a sizable stack of pastel-coloured paper. 

“Are we doing an art project?” Jordan inquires as he comes out from behind the counter carrying her favoured pumpkin spice latte. “Hello Kitty stationery. Cute, but a bit twee. I feel vaguely like we’ve time-warped back to 1998.”

“It’s very me, though, isn’t it?” Maralynn grins, picking up one bubblegum-pink sheet. “I have a white cat, and there are a lot of baby pictures of me wearing a red bow in my hair. Obviously, Hello Kitty is my spirit animal. Furthermore, for the record, retro is totally in. And I would totally rock some iconic ‘90s butterfly clips.”

“It IS very you,” Jordan agrees as he sets her latte down on the table. “Drink up, my friend. You know your PSL will be gone soon. Fall’s almost over.”

“It’s okay. It’s time to say goodbye to the old, say hello to the new in a lot of ways, isn’t it?” Maralynn smiles softly. “There’s always something new coming along. All I can do is look forward to what the future may bring, and hope for the best, and keep my head up, right?”

“Indeed. Is that the theme of your commencement speech?” 

“Something like that.” Maralynn smiles enigmatically as she scribbles something in loopy, girly handwriting on the sheet of Hello Kitty stationery. The letters are sparkly turquoise blue against the pink paper. “So, are you going to the commencement ceremony to bear witness to me embarrassing myself in front of a ginormous group of people?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Jordan assures her, giving her a brotherly pat on her head even as the chime on the door jingles to signify the entrance of another customer. It’s Rebecca, whose jet-black hair stands out like lacquer against the holly-red silk scarf around her neck. And as Maralynn watches, Jordan straightens, walks towards her with a faint smile. The other girl smiles back. There’s not a single word exchanged, and no one does anything so obvious as a hug or kiss, but it’s as though the very air in the cafe is warmer somehow despite the wintry draft that had blown in through the open door. 

_Well, then_. Maralynn gives herself a minute to internally coo over the cute couple, then turns her attention back to the stationery on the table. With painstaking care, she finishes writing out her note, then folds it into thirds. Into an equally pink envelope with a frilled edge it goes, along with a ticket to the commencement ceremony. Out with the old, in with the new-- in coffee, and in life. It’s risky, certainly, but somehow, she knows, quite simply, that it’s worth any risk.

**

December 14th, 3pm

Really, she has no business being here. 

Annette Martin is unfamiliar with this side of campus altogether. The music school boasts beautiful grounds including a pond which, in the warmer months, would be teeming with ducks and geese, but she feels small and odd and out of place as she steps through the hallways, hearing snatches of mish-mashed music through the closed doors of countless practice rooms. The location of the performance hall is clearly marked, and she follows the signs until she reaches that auditorium. 

Shane is already seated at the piano on-stage, his fallen-angel hair glowing in the lights. The instrument is a sleek, formidable nine-foot concert grand Steinway looking like a giant glossy black panther reclined on the hardwood floor. There’s a trio of professors seated in the front row, and though the auditorium seats hundreds, no one else is there but them and her. 

Noel had been the one to tell her to come, the other day, when she’d gotten home from lab to find him seated at the kitchen table across from Melia. Big and friendly and handsome, he’d greeted her with a smile, then looked her deep in the eye. “Shane’s piano composition final is on Friday. You should go, if you’re free.”

Shane had been preoccupied for the past week, pale and listless, alternating between bouts of nervous energy at 3am and falling asleep from pure exhaustion, still clutching a notebook full of scribbled math theory for dear life, at two in the afternoon with his head in her lap. At a loss, she’d pulled the afghan off the back of the couch and covered him as best as she could, then somehow nodded off herself only to awaken an hour later with her fingers buried in his hair and Melia coming in through the door. Melia had said nothing.

Now, she sits in the very back of the auditorium as the first professor clears his throat and glances through the pages of Shane’s score. “A concerto for solo piano, Mr Greenberg? Ambitious of you.”

“I’ve been told since I started at music school that this would be the single most important thing I’d write. So why not give it my all?” Shane’s words should sound sarcastic-- in fact, that’s what Annette would have expected, but they’re soft and solemn instead. “Let’s say that I’ve been inspired this term.”

“All right. Let’s begin.” The second speaker is a female professor, surprisingly young and attractive, wearing a teal dress. “Concerto in A minor, an original composition by Shane Greenberg. You may begin.”

Shane takes a deep breath that is almost audible from where she’s sitting, then places his beautiful, talented hands on the keys. And then the first note rings out like a cry, and the music fills the auditorium like a torrent. 

It starts with the bravura of a perhaps-arrogant young man, confident in his brilliance, filled with rapid sequences of sixteenth and thirty-secondth notes, broken with dissonant chords which should have clashed and yet somehow made it deeper, instead. Then, dramatically, after a flourish of cadences, a pause, and when the music resumes, it somehow transforms from virtuosic to emotive, though he stays with the same melodic theme. 

By the second movement, Annette can all but pick out individual moments, frozen in time. Quiet ones filled with the scratch of pencil on paper and the rustle of turning pages. Tempestuous ones filled with deep, passionate discussions about anything and everything. Tender ones that felt like soft hair under one’s fingers or unfamiliar sheets under one’s body. It’s a dedication to her, and him, and each and every shared moment of the last few months. The auditorium is quiet but for the music which pours forth like blood from a still-beating heart, and yet she can hear her own pulse pounding in her ears over it, in metronomic counterpoint. 

It’s perhaps ten minutes or perhaps an hour or perhaps a lifetime later when he stops, and it’s as though time’s standing still. Even the professors seem frozen in their seats. Shane bends his head low, as though he’d just given everything in himself there was to give, and the effort of lifting his head was too much to bear, then rakes a shaking hand through his tousled hair. Certainly that’s not proper concert pianist posture, but the female professor, who seems to be the first to snap out of the spell, doesn’t seem to care as she springs to her feet, clapping enthusiastically. A split second later, her colleagues join her, and if the sound of applause jolts Shane awake, he still has the half-wild eyes of one caught in the middle of a waking dream as he stands, bows. And then he sees her, and his eyes widen into the ones of an animal caught in a snare.

He doesn’t wait for the judges to comment on his music or his performance, though, and all but bolts away from the piano as though the black panther instrument is set to pounce on him. He’s out the auditorium door before they can say anything, and Annette runs out after him a moment later. Surely he wasn’t trying to go away from her, not now. Not after pouring out his whole heart in notes that might as well have been the most precious of words. 

The pathways of the campus are all but deserted at this hour, but he’s taller and faster than her, and covers quite a lot of ground in a short time, but Annette is nothing if not determined. The sidewalk is slippery with frost on the last of the fallen leaves, and her book bag is certainly heavy as she jogs after him. Clutching her side, she raises her voice-- shouting out, as she never does. “SHANE! WAIT!”

He stops in his tracks, shoulders hunched against the cold, and slowly, slowly turns, green eyes over-bright on his beautiful face. She’s in front of him in an instant, gasping for breath, dimly aware that overhead, the first snow of the year has started to fall. 

“I didn’t know you were going to be there. I probably should’ve. I’ve never played that well before.” A breath shudders out of him in a ragged puff of white. “You inspire me. I could say you’re my muse.”

_An unsung piano version of a John Legend song at a bachelorette party. “You’re my downfall, you’re my muse. My worst distraction, my rhythm and blues.” When all of me loves all of you._

She summons every ounce of courage in her, and reaches up, touches his cold cheek with her cold fingers, trying her hardest to ignore the fact that her own cheeks are burning with embarrassment and unbidden hot tears. He bends his head just the tiniest bit, which brings his face close enough to hers that she can feel his shaky breaths against her lips and his chilly, slightly stubbly cheek against her smooth, damp one. “It’s beautiful. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”  

**

December 16th, 11am

The crowd in the stadium breaks into raucous applause when the Dean announces Maralynn’s name as the first of three student commencement speakers. A brief biography of her is written in the day’s program, highlighting her achievements and touching on her background, with a predictably photogenic headshot of her smiling out, radiant even in black and white. She takes the stage, visible through the big-screen, blonde hair streaming down beneath the staid black graduation cap, and her smile’s almost sunny enough to ward off the December winds.

“Well, goodness. Four years ago, I wasn’t sure I’d be here today,” Maralynn starts, with a cheeky grin. “I made the egregious mistake of eating a dining hall hot dog complete with all the trimmings my first week. Yeeeeahh, anyone who’s not trying to go on an epic juice-cleanse-level diet? Don’t do that.”

Laughter rumbles across the stadium. She winks, grimaces, then continues. “I came here thinking I pretty much had life figured out. I had a plan, and a carefully-thought-out course of study, and the perfect set of bed-linens for an extra-long twin bed. I figured that I knew what exactly I’d be getting into: don’t drink from the punch bowl at frat parties, and do always wear your shower shoes. Don’t ever friend any of your professors on Facebook unless everything is private and untagged!” More laughter. “But do befriend them, or at least understand that their brilliance, creativity and even the occasional mercurial crazy assignment-- will help you develop into a smarter, more adaptable, more open-minded person.” 

There’s a smattering of applause, and Maralynn flashes a peace-sign at the crowd. “I thought I had it pretty well figured out, but what I learned, in the last four years, was that I really didn’t. I learned quite a few things the hard way. Energy drinks and diet pills do not actually help you pass Calculus no matter how much you cram, folks! Thoroughly check the communal washing machine in your building before you throw in a load-- someone’s lost red sock will dye your favourite white blouse bubblegum pink, right before you need it for an interview.” More laughter greets her cheerfully wry anecdotes, and she pauses, before continuing in a softer, more earnest voice. “I also learned a few things which have nothing to do with linguistics or labs, math or midterms. Valuable things which have nothing to do with academia and everything to do with life.”

Blue eyes shining, she addresses the crowd with her shoulders back and her face proudly forward. “I learned that there are almost always multiple ways of reaching your goals-- usually an easy way and a right way, and no one is going to stop you from doing the first-- or tell you just how much more rewarding it is to do the second. I learned that you can always find the time to do something fun, or something worthwhile, if you truly want to, no matter how heavy your course-load. I learned that you will meet people you adore, and people you despise, and people you absolutely just don’t relate to on any level, and how you choose to treat them is a reflection on you, not on them. And… I learned that you can love, deeply, perhaps hopelessly, and if that doesn’t make you a stronger and better person, you’ll not truly have loved at all.”

Perhaps it’s the wind, or perhaps it’s the way she says those last words, but Cameron suddenly finds himself short of breath as though he’d just come off a five-mile jog. Maralynn smiles-- beams, really, as she glances out towards the crowd. “I’m still learning. And that, I think, is the most important thing. I don’t know what tomorrow brings-- for me, or for any of my fellow graduates, or for any of you out in the audience. But I’m okay with not knowing, because after these last four years of lessons learned in and out of the classrooms, I do know one thing. The life we’re meant to live-- the life that’s set to begin, outside of these dorms and lecture halls-- is only as wonderful as we make it out to be. I can’t wait!”

The crowd breaks into thunderous applause again, and as far as Cameron goes, the rest of the commencement passes in a blur of clapping and Pomp and Circumstance. It’s approximately an hour later that the crowd begins to disperse, gathering in small groups around the stadium to exchange hugs and take pictures, make plans for celebratory lunches or dinners. Maralynn emerges, sans cap, gown unfastened to reveal a predictably bright-coloured dress underneath, chattering a mile a minute to various parents, friends, professors, and fellow graduates. He hangs back, awkwardly holding a bouquet of late autumn blooms in shades of gold and russet and burnt orange. She catches sight of him, though, and dashes forward, her footsteps quick and steady despite the sparkly high heels visible underneath the bottom hem of her black robes, and he has only a split second to hold the flowers awkwardly out of the path of the onslaught before she’s got both arms wrapped around his neck and her face nuzzled into the wool of his sweater. He freezes, certain that he’s blushing for perhaps the first time in years, equally certain that various of the people gathered around are likely staring-- not that he can find it in himself to pay attention to anything beyond the immediacy of her embrace and the wispy, flowery scent of her hair under his nose. Belatedly, with the infinite care of a man given leave to handle a priceless artifact, he settles one hand at the back of her head, her nape warm against his palm. 

Finally, after the span of half-a-dozen racing heartbeats, she pulls back far enough to look up into his face, and he vaguely wonders if this is what it feels like to go slowly and blissfully blind from staring straight into the sun. “You came!” Her fingertips are warm as they sink into the hair at the base of his neck. “I didn’t know for sure if you’d make it.” 

“I wouldn’t miss it, despite your very… glittery letter inviting me,” he murmurs, then belatedly remembers the flowers and hands them to her. “These are for you. Obviously.”

Her brilliant smile morphs into a familiarly cheeky grin. “Aww, CAMMY! You didn’t have to! That’s so sweet of you! Don’t worry, though. I won’t tell anyone.”

He rolls his eyes at her theatrics, even as he tries not to look too pleased, himself. “Well, I suppose that the other option would’ve been balloons. And that’s a bit infantile, isn’t it? You’re a lady and not some little kid.”

“I am incredibly flattered that you think so,” Maralynn flutters her illegally-long eyelashes, and he awkwardly clears his throat. 

“I… should probably let you get off to whatever plans you have, for the rest of the day. With your friends and family and such, I mean.” It strikes him all of a sudden that perhaps this would be the end. She may very well move off-campus, go off anywhere in the great big world, and they may very well never again run into each other, accidentally-or-on-purpose, at a cafe at the break of day, where her bright smile and her brighter wit would jolt his day into gear like a sudden flash of sunlight. It doesn’t bear thinking about, not during a happy occasion such as this, and he clears his throat again. “I… congratulations. You’re---”

Whatever flustered and half-hearted nicety he has on the tip of his tongue is cut off by soft, sweet lips pressed against his own, and instinct and months’ worth of unspoken attraction takes over, overriding good intentions and rationality with the force of a flood. He hauls her in with both arms, one hand cupping her jaw as the other fists in the back of her gown, and the kiss turns from sweet to frantic in a span of seconds. Sense spins out altogether as passion takes over, and neither of them pull away until both are gasping for breath. She has both hands clutched around handfuls of his sweater and her lipstick is hopelessly smudged, and yet, her sassy mouth quirks up in that too-familiar smile. 

“My plans? You’re asking about my plans, Cameron?” It’s probably the first time she’s ever called him by his full name, and it sounds wonderful, coming from those lips. “Didn’t you listen to my awesome commencement speech at all? It’s to live the life I’m meant to live-- to have the most wonderful time I possibly can.” She leans up, brushes her mouth against his again with the ease of someone who is coming home at last. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is almost the end, folks, but not quite! There is an epilogue coming up and ART!!


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The magnificent art you see at the bottom of this was the creation of Kat, whose work can be found on tumblr at http://versailles-fairytale.tumblr.com/. Also, many thanks to Zellie for the beta! Check out the many other brilliant works in the bang, guys, and thanks again to the mods for running this event!!

March 2nd, 11pm

Melia’s phone rings with the Facetime jingle for the third time in approximately as many hours, and though the time is late, and she has to be up for work early in the morning, she picks up. 

“Lia! Aloha from Hawaii and all that!” Maralynn is wearing her airline-issued lei like an old Hollywood starlet with a mink fur stole. There is no indication, whatsoever, that she’d just gotten off a ten-hour flight. “I promised I’d call you as soon as we landed and all that, let you know we’ve made it safe. Well, here we are! It is gorgeous outside. There are palm trees everywhere! It’s drizzling a bit but compared to the snow we’ve been having the last two months at home, I’ll take Drizzle for $200, Alex!”

Melia laughs at her friend’s enthusiasm. “Good. Everyone has now officially landed and checked in. Annette and Shane arrived first, and then Jordan and Rebecca about an hour ago. You’re the last one.”

“Last but certainly not least, I hope!”

“Oh, of course not,” Melia assures her, taking a sip of Starbucks’ white hot chocolate, brought home from work and subsequently laced with a shot of Kahlua. “Where is Cameron?”

“Cammy is at baggage claim getting our stuff! Shouldn’t take him long, I don’t think. My bags are millennial pink and matched, so they should be easy to find. How’s Arty doing at your place?”

“Your demon familiar? He ate half a pound of cod fillets off my kitchen counter yesterday. Absconded with it when I went to open the door for Noel, before I’d given him a spare key. We ended up having pizza delivery for dinner, so thanks.”

“Awww. Why are you letting him eat real food? I left you a gigantic bag of his favourite Purina flavour and a bag of treats and a bag of catnip so that’s basically the entree, the dessert, _and_ the post-dinner cocktail all in one!”

“Why am I… ‘ _letting_ ’ him eat real food?” Melia scoffs in disbelief. “He stole my dinner! I was going to do fish and chips! Are you sure your cat isn’t like… one of those Sabrina the Teenage Witch pets who are secretly evil masterminds in disguise? Perhaps under a spell? I found him napping in the fruit bowl on the coffee table the other day. On top of a pile of clementines. Like that was normal or something.”

“He likes the fruit smell! And if you think that’s bad, he really likes shedding on Cammy’s suits, which is super duper bad. But for all that, I think they’re starting to warm up to each other!” Maralynn glances away for a second, then beams. “And speak of the devil, here he is! Cammy, we were just talking about you! Were your ears burning?”

“No.” Melia can’t see Cameron through the facetime screen, but his voice is unmistakable. It’s as cool and cultured as the first day last fall when he’d set foot in Melia’s Starbucks, though at the moment, the tone is tinged with faint humour. “I still don’t understand how you managed to pack three bags to my one. That’s not even counting carry-ons and personal items.”

“Oh, Cammy, you can look totally hot in the one suit for this whole trip, but we girls need variety,” Maralynn sighs theatrically. “Especially since this is the first time I’ve ever been to Hawaii, so I will have to take a gazillion pictures everywhere!”

“I’m sure, and your adoring public awaits.” Melia finishes her drink, then smiles at the sound of footsteps; it’s almost immediately followed by a warm, familiar hand on her shoulder. “Well, thanks for checking in.”

“Anytime, mama. Have a good night-- get some sleep! It must be like midnight over there, and you are one of those weirdo _morning people_.”

The call disconnects, and the hand on her shoulder brushes her hair, then her cheek. Noel bends down and presses a soft kiss to the top of her head. “Everyone made it, I gather?”

“Yeah. Your parents settled in for the night?” Noel had not gone home for spring break, opting instead to stay on-campus. Instead, his parents had been the ones to make the plane trip into town. He’d put them up at his place, especially since Shane was booked to play at that self-same splashy destination wedding in Hawaii, and they’d been over, earlier, for dinner. Melia had pulled all the stops for the meal, then spent a cozy hour with Noel’s mom learning how to make gooey butter cake for dessert. That particular confection is a far cry from the rack of lamb with mint pesto and fennel almond pilaf that she’d made, but Sarah Vaughn is slightly plump, with warm brown eyes that have laugh-wrinkles fanning out at their corners, and prone to hugging, solid and sweet and comforting just like her cooking. Melia had not been doted on or fussed over in that peculiar, maternal fashion in longer than she could remember. She’d been nervous about meeting Noel’s family; now she’d almost wished that they didn’t have to leave at the end of the week. 

“Mom’s stocking Shane’s side of the refrigerator with dozens of tupperware containers of everything she could possibly imagine would be good and microwavable for when he comes back. That boy will have meatloaf and tater tot casserole and chili for the rest of the month, so I’m sure he’ll be thrilled. As for dad, he was watching some documentary or another, but fell asleep midway through, which is fairly typical. He’d pull an all-nighter if his favourite football team made it to the Superbowl, mind, but Animal Planet is not the Green Bay Packers.”

He pulls her up to her feet, and she lets him guide her out of the living room. Almost immediately, Maralynn’s feisty cat springs onto the armchair she’d just vacated and starts to knead the armrests, claws extended. Melia rolls her eyes.

“Maralynn’s going to owe me a week’s worth of groceries and a brand new apartment by the time she’s back.” 

“I’m sure she’ll be thrilled at the prospect of redecorating everything in rainbow pastels, if nothing else,” Noel chuckles. “But admit it. You have a soft spot for the rascally furball.”

“The rascally furball is a devious-minded, high-maintenance hellion, much like his owner, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at anything it does. Still, between this cat-sitting adventure and picking up two of Jordan’s usual shifts at Starbucks, this is going to be a busy week ahead. Which means that we should probably go to bed. I have to be up in five hours.”

Noel nods, and they make their way to her bedroom. They’d sleep, and she’d wake up to dozens of pictures and text messages from their friends: Jordan and Cameron in their tuxes. Shane’s curly head bent over a piano. Rebecca and Annette and Maralynn sipping cocktails on the beach. Pink and gold ocean sunsets. Black lava rock and blue-green beach glass. Plumeria flowers and bare toes digging into wet beach sand. Shell shops selling Hawaiian shirts and surfboards. Joined hands with matching rings. Couples dancing cheek to cheek. Stolen kisses. Group hugs. Jokes and anecdotes and drunk texts and flight notifications. Melia would skim through them, and those tiny flashes of life would keep her smiling as she pours coffee and froths milk, makes change and small-talk. 

And a week later, when-- not if-- when they’re back and all together again, they’ll keep her smiling, still.


End file.
